A Reckoning
by librarianmum
Summary: So, this is the life of Molly Hooper. Humble laboratory assistant, lonely cat owner, friend, partner-in-crime, companion, sometimes lover...just an ordinary woman who always mattered.
1. Chapter 1

**Here we go - I've decided that it's time Molly had her say... This is very much from Molly's POV, and it's my first Sherlock/Molly story (should that be Sherlolly?), so please be kind!  
**

**Couple of notes: I didn't know Molly's age or much of her background, so I've given her a bit of history that may not be canon. I've also taken her to be roughly five years younger than Sherlock and some nine years younger than John - again that might not be accurate. I've never been sure whether she is a qualified pathologist or a laboratory assistant, but she's the latter in this story.**

**Oh, and by the way, I mean no insult to the noble profession of librarianship, being one myself!**

* * *

Chapter 1

She could never quite remember when he had first breezed airily into her life, as if that was precisely where he belonged.

That seemed…odd. She should recall the exact date, the exact moment. Just like the way people often said "do you remember where you were when Kennedy was shot?" Or when Elvis died, or when the Berlin Wall came down, or when those ill-fated jet planes flew impossibly low over the New York skyline on a beautiful September day. That was _right_ – it _should_ have been as memorable as that. There should be a plaque somewhere, saying that _this_ – _this_! – was the day and the hour and the second when Sherlock Holmes walked into her life and changed it irrevocably. For better or for worse… No. Definitely for better, no matter what happened later.

It disturbed her that, seated in a snug, low-ceilinged living room, her armchair pulled up to the wood burner, over thirty years later, she couldn't remember something so _important_.

_It's your age_, John would have said, in his usual brisk but comforting manner. She could almost hear his voice, see the twinkle in his eyes, the laughter lines in that worn, lined, beloved face. _Comes to us all, Molly – even a bright young thing like you_.

But these gaps in her memory trivialised the event that had changed her life forever, and that _hurt_. A cliché, but it was true. After all, it shouldn't have happened in the first place. A decision - a sudden whim – without which she might never have met him. Might have lived her bland, unassuming happy little life without knowing anything about him apart from what she read in the newspapers. And how might _his_ life have played out if they hadn't met? What would have happened to Moriarty, to Irene Adler, to John and Mary Watson?

Almost every day since, she had wondered what her life might have been like if she hadn't walked into that laboratory on that certain day…

* * *

Molly Amelia Hooper was the child of doctors – from a long line of doctors - who had failed to live up to the expectations of her ancestry. Not that her mum and dad had minded at all; they had simply wanted their only child to be happy. And it _had_ been a happy childhood, and Molly had grown from a solemn brown-eyed little girl into a slightly less solemn young woman with very few psychological scars to speak of. She was a little shy, particularly of men, probably courtesy of the old-fashioned and very ordinary girls' secondary school that had nurtured her. Nevertheless, she'd been liked at University for her quiet, kind ways and her surprisingly robust sense of humour. She didn't have many friends, but those she had were loyal and possibly equally unworldly.

She'd emerged with a handful of GCSEs and A-levels in a variety of subjects – a good, if not particularly remarkable, student. She'd been an 'all-rounder' without a strong aptitude for anything except chemistry, art and netball. Her choice of first degree had been easy – a BSc in Chemistry – but she struggled to know what to do after that. She had insufficient qualifications to be a doctor and no aptitude for the profession in any case. The drug industry might have been a possibility, but she distrusted the commercial world. In the end, with no better idea at hand, she'd taken an MSc in Library Science. From that, she'd worked in an NHS library in a desultory manner for a few months, before deciding that she actually hated librarianship. She stuck it out for a couple of years, guiltily aware of the money that her parents had spent on her education so far.

By twenty-five, Molly was kicking around in a job she didn't much like and wondering what to do with her life. Her beloved father had died of cancer six months' previously, and this devastating loss had left her with a stronger sense of her own mortality and a desire for a direction to her life. Applying for the vacancy of assistant technical officer at her hospital - Bart's - had been a pure whim, and it was no surprise that she didn't impress the interviewers with her panicky, unprepared answers to their questions. The job went to a far better candidate, so she really _shouldn't _have ended up working at the laboratory in Bart's a mere year later.

The fact that she _did_ stemmed from her developing interest in the role. It seemed to suit her - she'd always been reasonably good at chemistry and she had a strong stomach for gory sights and an interest in the processes and aetiologies of death. She'd looked into the career further and had applied for another post, this time successfully, at the North Middlesex Hospital. With some on-the-job training and a couple of courses on advanced chemistry and introductory pathology under her belt, Molly was a better prospect the following year. When Bart's pathology laboratory found itself unexpectedly and critically short of assistants, she was sent over to help out temporarily.

She remembered that she'd had her hair cut recently into a longish shaggy bob – a style that had looked great on a magazine model but had, inevitably, ended up looking lank and unkempt on Molly. She recalled that this had made her feel more than usually self-conscious – she could still _feel_ that tight, prickling sensation of discomfort - and that she'd tried to compensate by wearing a top that was a little too low cut and a little too tight, and had _then _tried to compromise for _that_ by wearing a knee-length wool skirt that was supposed to make her look older and more responsible. She also remembered that Toby, officially the Kitten from Hell that had invaded her life a few weeks before, had scratched her hand just before she dashed out of the door, and that the cut had bled through the plaster on the Tube. And she also remembered that she had tripped over an unexpected step as she entered the laboratory, while trying to dab her hand with a crumpled tissue…and that the resulting stumble had made the tall man at the far end of the laboratory glance up impatiently from his microscope.

"Um. Sorry," she offered, sheepishly, but the man had already turned back to his work, as if she were of no consequence. "Um, are you Dr Stamford?"

"_Obviously_ not," was the acerbic response, delivered in a cultured, rather public school, baritone. The man didn't even look up.

_Why 'obviously not'?_ she wondered silently – at least, she was pretty sure she was silent, but even so, the man sighed as he continued studying a slide through the microscope and replied as if she had spoken aloud. "No staff badge, no white coat or scrubs. And I'm clearly not standing here expectantly waiting for a new employee to arrive, which I would be if I _were_ him and an unfamiliar person came in, clutching an introductory letter…which you appear to have bled on, by the way."

Only then did he look up, his eyes dropping to the letter in her hand, as if to confirm what he had already described. "What do you want with Stamford, anyway? No, wait – don't tell me…"

His oddly light-coloured eyes narrowed and he looked her up and down in a familiar way that would have been insulting if she hadn't found this strange man's behaviour so intriguing. "Twenty five – no, just turned twenty six. University educated, but your qualifications didn't get you very far. You've been working as a laboratory assistant for a year, but not here, although you'd like to, for sentimental reasons - _why_? _Ah_… a parent worked in this hospital at some point – your father, recently deceased, and you think you will remember him better if you work here."

His voice was neutral, the delivery monotone, almost as if he were thinking aloud to himself rather than addressing her. There was not a scrap of emotion in it and no sympathy, not even over her father's death.

His eyes ran over her hair and clothes and his lips twisted into a nasty smirk that sent a chill down her spine. "A cat lover, single, and it's not hard to see why. The top doesn't suit you – it was designed for women with more…visible attributes, and makes you look too thin. The skirt ages you. Oh, and it was a mistake to cut your hair in that style – but you already know that. As for why you're here – easy! You've been sent from your usual place of employment to cover the staff shortages. Your boss is an old university friend of Stamford, which is why he asked him for help."

His eyes glazed over for a moment and then slid away from her to focus back on his work. Later, she recalled that it was as if he had abruptly lost interest - almost as if he had severed her from his vision with a pair of scissors. At the time, she wondered, uneasily, whether there was something not quite normal about him.

She opened her mouth to reply, but her voice seemed to have deserted her. Belatedly, she noticed that he was dressed quite oddly for a laboratory worker, in a dark suit that was, even to her untutored eyes, well-cut and probably bespoke. His hair was at odds with his neat appearance, being over-long and untidy with wild curls that he kept pushing out of his face. This seemed to fit the theory that he might be an escaped psychiatric patient who shouldn't be in here at all…although where would he have got his clothes from? They seemed to fit him quite well, and yet they seemed old fashioned for a man who looked to be only a few years older than her.

Almost against her will, she found herself drifting nearer to him, trying to pretend that she was interested in his work. In any case, he didn't appear to be aware of her perusal or, if he was, he didn't care. He replaced one slide with another, his large hands moving with a strange delicacy. They were long-fingered and well-shaped, but the tips were stained yellow. A smoker. He had a chemical scar on the knuckle of his index finger and a long thin scar snaking across the top of his thin wrist – a knife cut, perhaps? Her initial thought was this might be a cack-handed attempt at suicide or self-harm, but that theory didn't seem to fit very well with the man before her. He was, she suspected, far too clever not to kill himself effectively, if that was his aim. Something else then – a fight, perhaps?

His hands fascinated her. They were pale, the skin almost translucent with the blue veins very prominent. In fact, from what she could see of his face, it was also abnormally pale. Rather morbidly, she thought that he looked a bit like the corpse of a young drug addict that she had recently been asked by the grieving parents to dress in a new suit for his funeral. And, just like that young man, he was overly thin, almost skeletal…

She glanced around the quiet laboratory, a little nervously. Should she call someone? If he was a drug addict, and possibly a deranged one at that, shouldn't she make sure he was removed from the premises, assuming she could find a security guard? She'd visited the pathology department during her failed interview, but wasn't sure she remembered the layout.

He gave another sigh and she jumped. "_Not_ an addict. _Or_ a patient. That's what you were thinking, wasn't it? That I'd broken in here to steal drugs?" He looked up, those oddly pale blue eyes mocking her. She could see that they were clear and sharply intelligent. Not the dull, lifeless eyes of an addict.

"Um," she responded, awkwardly, apparently unable to say anything else. He rolled his eyes and went back to his work. Her eyes dropped to the worktable. There were a series of test tubes and corresponding slides, each containing a drop of liquid.

"It's dirt," he told her, suddenly. "Taken from three pairs of shoes and boots belonging to a man who has been accused of raping and murdering his niece. She was found half-buried in deserted factory grounds."

"And this proves that he was there?"

"_No_." He glanced up at her again, but this time there was no mockery in his eyes – in fact, she was surprised to see an open, interested expression on his pale face. "I'm not working for the police – not on this occasion, anyway. It's a private client. The man's a convicted paedophile with a penchant for teenage girls, and so naturally, with their usual lack of imagination, the police have arrested him. But they're wrong. He didn't kill her – in fact, he's successfully kept well away from _all _girls since his release; he's scared of going back in, since he can expect more brutal treatment from the other inmates... There's a particular chemical in the soil of those grounds and my findings prove that it's not present on any of the man's footwear."

She noted that his deep voice had lost some of its arrogant quality. He was talking to her in an informative, enthusiastic manner – a teacher to a particularly able pupil. He resembled nothing so much as the archetypal mad professor, particularly with the hair, but oddly this put her at ease enough to speak freely.

"How do you know he's given you all his shoes? Perhaps he threw away the ones he was wearing when she died, or burned them?"

He shook his head. "No opportunity. And he's on a low income – unemployment benefits with the occasional bit of labouring, cash-in-hand temporary work where no one needs to know his history. He can't afford more than three pairs of shoes. He can't even afford to pay _me_ – I contacted him because I want to get involved in the case."

"Why?"

He looked at her as if she was mad. "Because there's a _murderer_ to find, of course. And once I've convinced Lestrade that they've got the wrong man in custody, he might let me see the files."

Before she could answer or ask who Lestrade was, the double doors at the far end of the laboratory opened, and an overweight, middle-aged and rather sweaty man hurried into the room, looking harried.

"Are you Miss Hooper? I'm _so_ sorry, meant to be here on time, but at least you found your way into the place… Where's my rota? Damn… Please come on in, anyway, and I'll show you where everything is… I see you've already met our resident pest." Dr Stamford grinned at the young man, who scowled back at him and turned pointedly back to his experiments. "His name is Sherlock Holmes, if you're prepared to believe that. Please just ignore him – he seems to come with the furniture, but you'll soon find that he's harmless if left alone – relatively speaking."

On this strange last comment, he went back through the double-doors into what she assumed was the morgue. As she moved to follow him, a voice came from behind her.

"You'll get on better with him if you stop opening and closing your mouth like a fish. Despite appearances, he's not actually a fool. Apart from the fact that it makes you look more stupid than you actually are, it's a deeply unattractive mannerism, particularly on you."

She flushed, suddenly angry, and turned back to direct a glare at him. However, the man – Sherlock Holmes – was intent on his work and didn't seem to notice her. Before she could turn away again, he spoke once more. "By the way, there _will _be a job available here by the end of today – the assistant who claims to be off with gastroenteritis has in fact gone for an interview for a job as an air hostess which, judging by her physical attributes and general air-headedness, she is likely to get. Stamford will be desperate, so if you offer to transfer, he'll take you on immediately."

After a further moment's hesitation, during which she tried and failed to form a suitable reply, she turned away silently and followed Dr Stamford. At the door, she glanced back again, but Sherlock Holmes didn't raise his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Forgot to add disclaimers to the first chapter, so here they are now. Characters are the property of ACD and their modern incarnations property Moffatt/Gatiss/Thompson/BBC.**

**And I'm by no means a chemist, which will become very obvious! Forgive me my errors!  
**

**In this chapter, Molly learns a little more about Sherlock.**

* * *

Chapter 2

Molly soon came to recognise that the world's only consulting detective had three distinct moods, and they were so different that she began to think of them as three separate personalities or three 'Sherlocks'. On any given day it was impossible to predict which 'Sherlock' would walk through the door.

Her favourite was 'Professor Sherlock', and unfortunately that was the rarest of the manifestations, but on those occasions, he was happy to answer her questions or describe what he was doing in an enthusiastic, informative manner. He would even use her as a sounding board for some of his theories. It was clear, however, that she was not required to answer or contribute to his thought processes in any way – he would ask the question and then answer it to his own satisfaction almost immediately. In fact, she had the distinct impression that he wasn't _always_ aware exactly who he was addressing – she sometimes wondered whether he would stop talking if she propped a corpse up in her chair and left the room.

Still, it gave her a satisfaction to see him apparently contented, and his theories were interesting, even if she didn't always understand the leaps in his logic. At least she understood most of his experiments. He was an excellent chemist, naturally, but she at least had an undergraduate degree in the subject, and it gave her a certain amount of pride when she was occasionally able to predict what compounds he would need for his experiments or even assist him on some of them.

More usually, she would encounter 'Manic Sherlock', who would swan in at all hours to charm favours out of her, such as spare body parts to experiment on or a chemical he couldn't easily obtain elsewhere (she had to admit that he was fairly successful, so far). This Sherlock would rush over her like a gale-force wind, leaving her helpless in his wake. He would fire out compliments and mild insults in equal measure at high speed, apparently unaware of their impact on her. He would leave almost as abruptly as he arrived once he'd got what he wanted, leaving her shaken and unable to focus on her work.

But even _that_ was better than 'Dark Sherlock'. It didn't happen all that often, fortunately, but occasionally he'd hang around in the laboratory, either focusing doggedly on one experiment for several hours or slumping in a chair with no occupation, glaring at nothing in particular. On those occasions, she knew better than to approach him. If she did, she risked being at the receiving end of biting sarcasm or bitterly cruel comments about her appearance, personality or level of intelligence that could reduce her to tears.

She had no idea what it was that caused this dark, unpleasant mood to descend; she only knew that it frightened her. If she didn't know better, she would have said that his black depression, combined with his manic moods, were the behaviours of a recovering alcoholic or drug user, but she couldn't imagine someone as fiercely intelligent as Sherlock becoming addicted to anything. And that theory didn't fit with his general health – whatever mood he was in, he was still always quick-witted and deft in his movements, rather than dulled by intoxication.

And those distinct personalities were only the ones that he showed _her_. For all she knew, there were other people in his life who would see an entirely different Sherlock. Not that, she had any idea. He never mentioned anyone to her. She overheard him on the phone once, talking in an impatient voice to someone called Mycroft. On another occasion, he was moaning to Mike about being kicked out of his flat over some experiment. Mike had told him, in a good-humoured manner, that he needed to find himself a flat mate who'd be prepared to clean up after him - Sherlock's only response had been a snort.

But he must have _someone_. Friends, family – perhaps even a significant other – some lucky woman. It would never be _her_, of course – she was never that lucky, and he didn't show the remotest interest in her, no matter what she did. Of course, he might be gay, but in her (admittedly) limited experience, he showed zero interest in either gender. He was either asexual or else incredibly loyal to his partner.

She could only imagine the kind of partner that might be able to attract and, more to the point, _continue_ to keep the attention of this intriguing man. Occasionally, she would visualise a shadowy figure – male or female – sleek and attractive, tall, leggy and exotic. This person would always be impeccably turned out and would always look as if he or she had only just left the hairdressers. He or she would be extremely clever, of course, and witty and _interesting_.

One thing was for sure – that imagined partner would _never_ flush or get sweaty every time the tall consulting detective breezed into the room, just as he did now.

Molly had just finished labelling up some tissue samples for Mike's medical students. She'd been enjoying the monotony of the job, comparing bar codes to labels and humming a pop song under her breath. Now – instantly – she was horribly aware of a coffee stain on the sleeve of her blouse and the spot on her chin that she'd carefully covered with concealer before leaving home but which was almost certainly visible by now.

"Um…Hi, Sherlock. How are you today?" she quavered, _hating_ herself for doing so. Why couldn't she just behave like a normal human being around this man?

"Ah – Molly, _Molly_…" He walked around behind her and his large hands dropped on her shoulders. She just had time to drop a bagged tissue sample from suddenly nerveless fingers before he swung her around to face him. His eyes were glittering wildly – _definitely 'Manic Sherlock' today _ – and he gave her a small shake before letting her go. "_This_ is your lucky day."

"Er…it _is_?" She gave a weak little giggle and pushed back her hair. The bob was growing out and it was growing a bit straggly, but she'd got up half an hour early this morning to use her new curling tongs. The glossy waves had long since disappeared to be replaced by straight hair again, but in any case, he didn't seem to have noticed her poor attempt at a new look. He was peering over her shoulder at the skin samples she was working on, leaning in with his hands on the table on either side of her, as if she were not there. She found herself squeezed between him and the table and her stomach clenched uncomfortably, as it so often did. She could smell the light musk of the product he used to dampen down his curls, and resisted the impulse to close her eyes and breathe it deeply into her lungs.

"Yes, Molly, it _is_, because you have both the _means_ and the _opportunity_ to help me solve a murder – and I do hope the _motive_ too. All I need is a middle-aged male, deceased no more than three days, must be an alcoholic, and I'm _sure_ you can provide one." He continued leaning over her, studying the packaged tissue samples.

"Well, I don't know…" She could feel herself growing hotter and her underarms dampening. Before long she was going to stink of perspiration. Why wouldn't he move away?

"What? Not even _one_ body, generously donated to medical science? You disappoint me, Molly." He lifted a hand to prod at one of the packages, pushing impossibly closer against her in the process. Didn't he have the _least_ idea of the impact he was having on her? "Interesting… arsenic poisoning…"

"Um – they're samples - for Mike's pathology session." She managed to squirm away from him and turn back to the table, picking up the tray of samples. "I – um – I just need to – you know -." She gestured towards the morgue.

He seemed to have lost interest, turning towards her computer instead, and she escaped gratefully, going into the morgue to store the samples in a cold cabinet. Inevitably, when she returned, he'd hacked into her computer.

"Predictable as ever, Molly. If you're going to insist on changing your password after each of my visits, at least _try_ to make it a challenge…"

She suppressed a sigh – she'd long since given up trying to prevent him from getting access to confidential data. As she approached the screen, she could see that he was clicking through recently completed forensic reports."

"Aha – here we are! This'll do nicely." He tapped the screen, indicating a record for a fifty-five year-old male road traffic victim. "Get the body out for me."

"I can't do that! Sherlock – you _know_ I can't – he's not a donation! His family -."

"Won't be coming for him," he interrupted impatiently, his eyes scanning the details. "Homeless for roughly ten years, no recorded next of kin. Parents died years ago, wife left him when he took to drinking and couldn't care less about him, children probably don't even know he still exists. Oh, come _on_, Molly! You know as well as I do that he'll end up cremated by the state. I only need him for a couple of hours."

"Well, what about the inquest…"

He rolled his eyes. "A homeless alcoholic hit by a night bus after staggering off the kerb? I doubt our legal system will be all that concerned, and the forensic report is complete. And anyway, even if they take a second look, they won't even notice."

"Won't notice _what_?"

"That I've had him out of the freezer for a couple of hours," he replied, carefully dodging her real question.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, weakly, already aware that she was probably going to give in and let him have what he wanted. Didn't she always?

"Oh…it'd take too long to explain. It's for a case." He turned towards her, gripping her shoulders again and granting her his most brilliant smile as his voice dipped lower, his tone suddenly intimate. "I'd be _very_ grateful, Molly."

"Well… if it's for a case…" She was mesmerised by his eyes. Not for the first time, she noticed that it was hard to pin down the exact colour. In general, they looked blue, but the actual shade could range from stormy grey to deepest azure depending on the light and – she suspected – his mood. Today – well, right now at least - they were sea-green and very soft, seeming to draw her in.

Abruptly, he dropped his hands from her shoulders and rubbed them together. "Good, good! Put him in room two – the light's better there. Now, I'm going to need…" He spun away, making for the hazardous substances storage unit.

She gave a tremulous sigh and tried to calm her breathing. He _must _know what effect he had on her. It looked artless, but it _couldn't _be, not with that seductive voice and that manner he had of scrambling her thought processes by shamelessly invading her personal space.

She gave a shaky laugh and looked at the screen, dutifully noting the ID number on her pad.

As she went into the morgue, fetching a trolley to retrieve the body, she reflected on how quickly her initial fascination with this man had developed into a full-on crush. Probably less than a week after she officially transferred to Bart's. It was all too easy to fall for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

In the first place, he was nothing like any of the men she'd met before – a world away from the male students on her chemistry degree for a start and not much like her mortuary colleagues either. His designer suits and shoes - and _that_ coat – made him stand out, and the Byronic curls and romantically pale complexion added to the image.

When he wasn't around, she was able to focus on her work, which she enjoyed very much. Mike Stamford was a pleasant boss, not particularly demanding, and although her work was fairly routine, she enjoyed it. In her quiet way, she got on well with the forensic pathologists and her fellow mortuary assistants.

Sherlock was the only element that threatened to disrupt her working day. It would have been easier if she could predict when he was likely to turn up, as well as the mood he would be in. As it was, she was on constant tenterhooks. He came in quite frequently, even if it was only briefly to 'borrow' some equipment from the lab. The longest time he'd been absent was two weeks, so if she hadn't seen him for a few days, she'd be constantly rushing off to her locker to touch up her make-up, just in case. Not that he ever noticed – he'd either ignore her appearance completely or, if he were in a particularly vindictive mood, he'd criticise her. He seemed to have an innate understanding of her greatest insecurities (her lank hair, thin lips and tendency to blush at the slightest provocation) and would exploit them mercilessly. And he never apologised. The next time he came in, it would be as if nothing happened.

The strange thing was that he never appeared to interact with anyone else in the pathology department. He was on reasonably affable terms with Mike, although that was due more to the doctor's kindly demeanour than as a result of any effort by Sherlock. Sometimes, he was present when Greg Lestrade, the pleasant but permanently tired-looking DI from the Met, came in to view a body. On those occasions, he generally ignored the pathologists and carried out his own examinations, rapping out his deductions with his usual machine-gun delivery. He also ignored the other mortuary assistants. When she made tentative enquiries of her colleagues, no one seemed to have anything to do with him.

She often wondered who he went to for favours when she wasn't on duty, but it didn't appear to be an issue. Generally, he seemed to know exactly when she _would_ be there, although there had been that famous occasion when she had been on holiday in Scotland and had received a series of increasingly impatient texts demanding her immediate return. In the end, she _had_ popped back a couple of days' early (the weather wasn't very nice anyway, and they were short of assistants at work), but he hadn't come into Bart's for a week. The next time she saw him, he couldn't recall sending the texts and didn't seem to remember why he'd needed her, "but it couldn't have been that important, Molly, since it was only _you_". She reflected, bitterly, that he'd probably only wanted her to fetch him a coffee.

It was utterly ridiculous really, she mused as she wheeled the covered body into examination room two. No one else would be stupid enough to put up with his put-downs and insults and his obvious exploitation of her desire to be of use. If she had any pride at all, she'd have told him to get stuffed a long time ago…but then, if she had, he'd have probably just stood there with his confused/innocent expression, as if he had no idea what he'd done to offend her. Just like his flirting, she couldn't tell whether that was real or feigned either.

"Excellent…no, that's fine, just leave it there," he directed, sounding distracted.

She bit her lip and went back into the laboratory. A simple thank-you would have been nice, but she'd learnt not to expect any niceties. If it had been nearer to the end of her shift, she might have been tempted to linger out of curiosity. Generally, in this type of mood, he didn't mind, as long as she stayed out of his way and kept her mouth shut. If she struck lucky, he might even explain what he was doing. She was too busy today, however.

After a quick sandwich and coffee, she went into the mortuary to assist one of the duty pathologists in carrying out an autopsy – a sad case of sudden heart failure in a seventeen year old boy, a keen footballer who had collapsed during a match. It turned out he had had an undiagnosed congenital heart condition. The tragedy was that if it had been diagnosed, it could have been controlled. Sobered by the sight of a healthy young body permanently stilled by death, she sat down at her computer and dutifully typed in the pathologist's findings.

As she completed and signed the e-form, he came back into the laboratory. "OK, I've finished, you can put him away again."

She looked around at him; he was leaning against the table frowning at a petri dish. "What did you do? Can you explain it to me?"

"What? No – you wouldn't understand." He waved a dismissive hand in her direction, still staring at the dish. Usually she would take the hint, but just for once, she decided to assert herself.

"I might." She stood up. "Try me."

He gave her an impatient glance but began to speak, his voice a monotone. "Subject is a middle-aged male, who was admitted to hospital with the symptoms of advanced alcoholic hepatitis. Autopsy seems to bear that out, and he's reported to have been a heavy drinker. Lived in a country estate where he enjoyed riding and blood sports and spent his evenings both polishing his guns and polishing off the scotch. And yet, this same man was out riding just a few days before his death. Plus, he had a string of ex-wives and estranged children, and yet his youngest daughter was the sole inheritor of his not-inconsiderable estate. He had a reputation for falling out with his relatives on a whim; his will was altered 9 times in the last year of his life. Household staff noted that he seemed angry with his daughter, had been shouting at her and had requested a visit from his lawyer. They think it was because he disapproved of her boyfriend – not rich enough for her. Lawyer was abroad and by the time he returned, Daddy was comatose in a hospital bed, his health having taken a dramatic turn for the worse."

"So, you think it wasn't alcoholic liver disease that killed him, then?" Molly leaned closer, trying to get a look at whatever was dominating Sherlock's attention. "What is that – is it… _Sherlock_! You took a liver sample from that man, didn't you?"

"Oh, _relax_," he said, impatiently. "I stitched him up again and you already took samples for the inquest; no one's ever going to know that a little more has gone. I needed it – specifically, I needed the liver of an alcoholic middle-aged man."

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock! One of these days, I swear… You know you're going to get me sacked, don't you?"

"Don't be so melodramatic," he drawled. "If you're so worried, perhaps you'd better get that body back into storage before someone notices that it's gone."

She hurried off to retrieve the body. When she returned, he was still frowning at the sample.

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.

"Compare it with a sample from the billionaire – when I get hold of one," he muttered. "The question is, _how_? Autopsy was straightforward and the body's about to be released to the daughter, who will no doubt cremate it at the earliest opportunity. I need something _quick_ – something that will catch Gavin's attention and get him to hold the body back."

"Gavin?"

"_Yes _– you know, Lestrade."

"Oh, you mean _Greg_."

"Who's Greg? Anyway, I need to investigate why a man who was relatively healthy even though he was fond of his scotch would _suddenly_ die of liver disease. Yes, he'd have some damage, but why such a _sudden_ decline? So far, all I can do is compare his liver with that of a matched individual with chronic liver disease caused by more than ten years of heavy drinking. I need to demonstrate that the decline in one liver is more acute than in another."

"What would _that_ mean?" She frowned. "How do you know that one liver doesn't decline more quickly than another?"

He gave her a particularly 'Sherlock' look. "Not _that_ quickly."

"But…what would do that? Presumably the autopsy found no signs of poisoning, if that's what you're thinking of?"

"No, so this poison was something that wasn't ingested. The question is: what?"

He fell silent, frowning into space.

Typically, Molly grew nervous in the silence and just as typically, felt a need to fill it. "I saw an interesting autopsy this afternoon. Sad case, really – a young man who literally died on the football pitch -."

"_Boring_," he interrupted, glaring at the liver sample.

She was shocked into silence for a moment. "A healthy young man drops dead and you think it's _boring_? Not to his parents."

He gave her a strange look. "I'm not one of his parents, so why should _I_ care?"

Again, she couldn't interpret this. Was he playing a role? Or was he, quite genuinely, confused by the notion that he should feel any sorrow for the boy's untimely death?

"It doesn't bother you, then? That boy could have had a normal life span if his heart condition had been diagnosed. I think that's what bothers me the most," she added, thoughtfully and half to herself. "We think we're so clever these days, a cure for cancer just around the corner and yet there are so many things we don't know. That boy had no advance warning – or if he did, he hadn't realised how serious it was -."

"Yes, well, thank you, Molly, but you don't actually _need_ to keep talking. It's not required."

She ignored this. "I suppose you could say it was a silent killer - ."

"I mean, it would be different if you had something _useful_ to say -."

"It was there, but no one paid any attention to it -."

"_Yes_! That's _it_!" He leaped into the air, punching his fist above his head.

She was shocked into immobility as he began to pace the room, talking quickly. "_That's_ how she did it. Silent killer… something that's there but no one pays any attention to it. But of course, the gun room and he loved his guns… Carbon tetrachloride!"

He stopped in front of her, grabbing her arms. "Come _on_, Molly, wake up! What forms does it take?"

"Um…" Her mind raced. "It's a banned substance, once used in fire extinguishers and – and dry solvents, I think. It's toxic, can affect the nervous system and kidneys -."

"Yes, yes, and -?"

"And the liver too, its vapour…" She stopped as Sherlock gave her a little shake and let go.

"Yes, yes! That's _exactly it_ – the _vapour_." He span around, holding his arms out wide. "She added it to the solvent he used to clean his guns. How did she get hold of it? Boyfriend needs checking out, probably works for a pharmaceutical company or has access – they use it still in hepatotoxicity testing. The victim spent hours in his gun room every day. No one else was allowed access, only him. So, for the last couple of weeks, he was spraying that solvent onto cleaning cloths, breathing in the vapour…"

"And that accelerated his liver damage," she breathed. "_Extraordinary_."

"Yes, and it's the lead I need," he added, quickly thumbing in a message on his phone. "Gavin needs to get forensics into that gun room and search the rubbish too – she's probably thrown the evidence away, but there'll be traces on every surface." He put his phone away and grabbed her hands, grinning at her, his eyes sparkling. "_Brilliant_, Molly – that was _brilliant_!"

She laughed, ridiculously elated. She'd always found his evident excitement in the face of murder a little disconcerting – what kind of person would be _pleased_ to know that someone was definitely murdered? However, she was beginning to see the attraction. To know that you had outsmarted the cleverest of murderers, to discover something that even an experienced forensic pathologist had missed… It was heady.

And _she_ was part of it too; he thought _she_ was brilliant! He'd said it, and he wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it, would he? _She_, little Molly Hooper, was pronounced brilliant by _Sherlock Holmes_! Suddenly, she felt at least six inches taller. In the face of his open admiration, she felt pretty. Even as he dropped her hands and turned away, she felt something warm in her stomach, spreading out over her body…

"You could buy me a drink, you know," she said, greatly daring.

"Hmm?" He'd taken his phone out again and was scanning for articles on carbon tetrachloride.

"A drink. You know – to celebrate. You could thank me by taking me out for a drink." She giggled nervously.

He looked up at her and something – _something_ – in his eyes made that warm glow in her stomach turn to ice, instantly. It wasn't that his eyes were cold or hard or cruel. It was simply that they were utterly _blank_. _Neutral_. _Disengaged_. As if he'd forgotten who she was or why she was even there. As if she was _nothing_ to him.

"Why on earth would I want to buy you a drink?"

* * *

**Poor Molly... I feel so mean.**


	3. Chapter 3

**OK, so I've discovered that I diverge from canon in a couple of areas. In the TV version, when we first meet Molly, she is 31 years' old and it's implied that she's only recently met Sherlock. In my version, Molly is a few years younger. She first met Sherlock when she was 26 and he was 31, and by the time John comes into the picture, they've known each other for 2 years and Molly is now 28. But, never mind!**

**There are some words towards the end quoted from Molly Hooper's blog, property of Joseph Lidster. And the usual disclaimers reply: not mine, no money. Oh, and there's also some discussion of sex in this chapter, but nothing really explicit.  
**

* * *

Chapter 3

Jealousy could destroy.

Jealously could be sudden and intense, but it could also creep up on you, gradually, almost imperceptibly, and take over your thoughts before you even knew it was there. It didn't matter how often you told yourself how _bloody pointless_ it all was, because _he'd_ never look at _you _– no, not in a _million_ years, not even if you were the only other person left in the entire world. It didn't matter. You couldn't help it.

Molly furiously pushed back the long strand of hair that insisted on escaping from her pony tail as she bent over her computer. She was busy working on probably the most boring job of all: industriously adding the pathologists' autopsy notes to the electronic records system. It was the kind of work she could do in her sleep, working through a teetering pile of paper - file after _damn file_…

The trouble was that the basic admin task was not sufficiently interesting to block her visual memories of a familiar lean figure, striding up and down the main laboratory, gesticulating wildly and talking animatedly. Eyes sparkling, alive, focused on the possibilities only he could see. And all aimed at her, no one else.

Not anymore. No.

Sherlock's exclusive attention was focused elsewhere now. On a small, calm, steady figure that had already become almost _hatefully _familiar. Dr John Watson. Arms folded, head cocked, eyebrows quirked in part-amusement part-amazement, as Sherlock expounded his theories.

_Two years_! _Two bloody years_ of risking her job by letting him in, day and night, finding body parts for him, turning a blind eye to the experiments, being a sounding board for his wilder theories. Two years of putting up with the casual insults, the bossing around, the most bizarre orders (she could hardly call them requests)… and nothing to show for it. Not a single kind word, never an offer of a coffee, not even a genuine "thank you". Not once.

Her thoughts strayed from the task to her memories of the last few weeks. When the slightly shabby, insignificant-looking stranger had limped into the lab leaning on his cane, she'd barely given him a glance. Just another of Mike's waifs and strays, not worth her attention. Not when Sherlock was standing _right there_. Just the sight of him made her heart leap.

She'd long since given up trying to analyse her reactions to the consulting detective. Familiarity and the constant knock-backs should have dulled them by now. It wasn't the first time Molly had fallen in love with someone unattainable, not the first time she'd had her heart broken, so why so significant this time? Why _him_? Why was it that the intensity of her feelings _now_ made those previous times seem like silly schoolgirl crushes, not worth remembering? Why did she have the uneasy feeling that this 'crush' would never be subsumed; that no other man would ever match him?

Her hands stilled on the keys as she considered him. Taken individually, his features were not that attractive. There were those oddly-shaped eyes with their indistinct colour, almost too small for his long face. The ridiculously striking cheekbones. The snub nose. The strongly defined upper lip and plush lower lip, strangely feminine in such a cold man. Over-long limbs that somehow managed to be graceful, and enormous hands with pale spidery fingers that ought to be far too big to move so delicately. And yet, taken together… He was… he was the kind of person to whom everyone's eyes would automatically turn the moment he walked into a room. The kind of man who made everyone else seem to blend into the background.

And then there was that _voice_. Ridiculously deep for such a slim man, it did strange things to her stomach every time he opened his mouth. Sometimes (though not always), it made it easier to ignore the jibes. Sometimes she was even prepared to open her mouth and make some comment that she knew would draw his ire, just so she feel that smooth baritone sweeping over her.

She never could have guessed the significance of the moment that John Watson stepped into the laboratory. She'd simply walked in, handed Sherlock his coffee, hidden her wince at the jibe about her mouth being too small and then walked out again. She'd obviously glanced in John's direction but had just as quickly dismissed him from her mind. It had been a shock when Mike had, rather smugly, told her that he'd managed to solve the accommodation problems of two people. And, of course, she couldn't enquire too deeply (_How_? _When_? _Why_?) without looking a bit too obvious.

The _Why?_ was answered the next time Sherlock strolled in, accompanied by Dr Watson. If she'd thought Sherlock was animated with her, he was positive sparkling with energy as he sparred with the older man, who was obviously already used to him, judging by the ironic, tolerant smiles with which he greeted Sherlock's sharp remarks.

And, OK, so she hadn't exactly been the focus of Sherlock's attention before, but at least he'd occasionally looked at her and had even found time to explain his theories, using her as a silent but appreciative sounding board. Now, he only ever looked in her direction if he actually wanted something that he couldn't either swipe himself or get John to fetch.

"Aha! New files!"

She jumped violently, shaken out of her depressing thoughts, as Sherlock burst into the laboratory, clapping his gloved hands together, briskly. He strode over to her desk and picked up the pile of folders, flicking through them quickly. "Anything interesting?"

"No, nothing! Don't mix them up, I've just done that one…" She reached out, trying to grab the folders but he lifted them above her head with a smirk. "You _know_ I always hold back anything that falls into one of your categories."

He dropped them, dismissively. "Better get on with your inputting. More important things to be doing, and you might be able to help me." He paused and considered her in a way that was just short of insulting. "Well, I say _help_… Perhaps shutting up and keeping out of my way might be more accurate, judging by your current mood. What's the matter? Boyfriend called it off?" He smirked, to show that he knew perfectly well that there was no boyfriend.

"Just ignore him, Molly. He's in a mood himself because Mrs Hudson's hidden his skull again and this time he can't find it."

She leaned over, peering around Sherlock in the direction of the second voice. Yes, there he was, as always. John. Sherlock's little _shadow_, she thought, rather uncharitably. Smiling kindly at her, even as her heart sank at the sight of him.

Sherlock snorted. "It's not a question of _not_ being able to. I just can't see the _point_ in playing such a ridiculous game. I suppose it gives her something to do."

"Oh, so you'll go straight to it when you get home, will you?" John winked at Molly as Sherlock ignored him.

Her instinctive dislike of the doctor was really quite unfair of her. During their brief acquaintance, John Watson had been nothing but perfectly pleasant. Amiable, polite, always thanking her when she brought him a cup of tea. Occasionally even seeking to take the bite out of Sherlock's meaner comments, which clearly troubled him.

She forced a smile in response. "I'm nearly finished, actually. I'll get something to drink in a minute, if you like?"

Her enquiry was tentative and, as expected, Sherlock ignored her, but John smiled. "That'd be great, thanks Molly. Tea for me, milk, no sugar, and I think you must know how Sherlock takes his coffee by now. Frankly, I'm amazed he's got any of his own teeth left."

"Less sugar in my coffee than in those biscuits you keep buying," Sherlock muttered, distractedly, as he looked around the laboratory. "Now, I'm going to need…"

Molly waved a hand, interrupting him. "Yes, go ahead. Anything." She'd learnt from bitter experience that it was best to just let Sherlock get on with it. Not really her responsibility, anyway. Mike hadn't actually banned him – not _yet_.

He turned away. "OK, John, get those petri dishes…"

She spun around in her chair, determinedly facing her computer terminal. However, it was just impossible to concentrate, with Sherlock giving bossy orders to John just behind her. She repressed a sigh and stood up, collecting the mug of coffee that she had allowed to get cold.

In the little staff kitchen, she boiled the kettle and dug into the cupboard for her clearly labelled jar of coffee. She'd started off getting her drinks from the machine along the corridor, but frankly it was so disgusting that it was hard to tell whether the cup contained coffee or tea. So she'd splashed out on an expensive jar, and amazingly there was still enough left for two mugs, even though it was frequently pilfered by her colleagues. Just recently, she'd added a (rather cheaper) box of tea bags, especially for John.

Drinks made, she put them on a tray and cautiously made her way back to the laboratory. Sherlock and John were arguing about something in their usual amiable manner and ignored her. She put the cups on the worktop, trying to ignore a fresh twinge of jealousy as Sherlock grinned at John, and made her way back to her computer.

Gradually, their conversation began to filter into her consciousness, rather like music that had had the volume turned up slightly.

"…don't believe you anyway," John was saying. "You can't possibly tell that from a jumper. For all you know, she was just about to visit her parents, or had a job interview, or something -."

"I'm telling you the truth. She was definitely about to go on a date - and with another woman. Which should come as a surprise to her husband when she finally leaves him."

There was a pause. Then: "A _woman_? You got that from a new jumper?" John sounded incredulous. "I don't buy it. Anyway, she was flirting with _you_."

Molly's hands paused on the keyboard at this. She turned in her chair and picked up her mug to sip her coffee, watching the two men carefully as she did so.

Sherlock was sorting some ash into petri dishes – his ongoing cigarette ash experiment, she presumed. Business must be slow then; he usually only turned back to this project when there was nothing else to occupy his mind. He didn't seem too disconcerted, though – there was no sign of the dark depression that often came over him at such times. She wondered what impact John's presence at home had had on his darker moods.

John was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and watching Sherlock's work, idly. She wondered what he did with his time. He no longer appeared to need the cane, but equally didn't seem to work – or at least he seemed to come in with Sherlock at all hours. Did he have some kind of army pension? He must do, or surely he wouldn't be able to support himself.

Sherlock didn't seem particularly phased by John's comment. "Of _course_ she was flirting. She didn't mean anything by it. It's simply what she's programmed to do. That's how she got herself a rich husband in the first place, even though she prefers the female gender." His hands paused as he considered. "In a way, I admire her. Oh, not for marrying a man she has no feelings for, but for being able to put aside sexual attraction to concentrate on the goal at hand. There is no doubt that her husband will never know the truth unless she chooses to tell him. As far as he's concerned, she's passionate about him – both out of bed and in it."

John laughed. "You are _kidding_ me. You really think it's possible to _fake_ sexual attraction? To pretend to be straight when you're actually gay?" He thought about this for a minute. "Well, maybe it would be easier for a _woman_ to keep the pretence going…"

Sherlock grinned at this, looked up at Molly and called out across the room. "What do _you_ think, Molly? Is it possible for a woman to continue to fake orgasms over many years?"

She gulped down scalding liquid, feeling it burn her mouth as she blushed. "Um, I wouldn't know about that…"

He gave her a quick, dismissive look. "No. I don't suppose you would."

"Well, I don't think she could," John continued, firmly. "Sooner or later, something would have to give. She'd go mad, trying to cover up her true nature. The sexual impulse runs deep. You can disguise a lot of things, but long term…and, anyway, men certainly can't fake sexual attraction."

"Yes, they could."

"Bollocks! A man cannot fake orgasm."

"They _can_ fake orgasm," Sherlock argued. "They can't fake ejaculation – _that_ I grant you. But it might not be necessary. Most men are capable of – what's the delightful phrase? – 'getting off, just as long as they can close their eyes and conjure up their fantasy of choice. In fact, they'd probably find it easier than women, who tend to place a greater emotional emphasis on the act. But consider straight men who sell sex to other men. They have to be able to conjure up a physiological response if required."

There was something slightly hard in Sherlock's tone – the last sentence was almost spat out. Molly noticed it, and was aware that John had too. Almost imperceptibly, the doctor had straightened from his slouch and was eyeing his friend keenly.

"Could _you_? Fake a response, I mean?" he asked, perhaps over-casually, because Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"_No_, John, the answer to your poorly disguised question is that I have _never_ prostituted myself to pay for drugs. You might give me a _little_ more credit than that," he muttered, and then grinned. "Personally, I've always found hacking into one of Mycroft's personal bank accounts far more rewarding. Less messy and more rewarding in the long run."

John relaxed a little. This was confirmation, had Molly ever needed it, that Sherlock _had_ been an addict at some stage. And clearly John was aware of that fact too and, equally clearly, he worried for his friend's health. Almost against her will, she found herself warming to him.

"You didn't answer my question, though," the doctor persisted.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. I imagine I could 'fake it', if required. Fortunately, the necessity has never arisen."

"You mean, you've never had to fake a response with a _man_? Or – um – you know…a _woman_?"

Molly winced at the fake nonchalance in John's voice, even as her ears pricked up. This was a question she'd been asking herself for over two years now, and she was no nearer to an answer. She had wondered for a while whether there was something going on between the two men, but it had become clear from various conversations that John was very much into women. Which, of course, didn't mean that Sherlock didn't fancy _him_…or men in general.

"Oh, for - _why_ do you persist in trying to analyse my sexuality?" Sherlock sounded genuinely irritated. "What difference could it possibly make to you whether I'm attracted to women, men - or _amoebae_?"

"I wouldn't _need _to ask if you would just tell me," John pointed out, patiently.

"I don't tell you because it's irrelevant!" Sherlock paused in his work and looked around at John. "What would you do with that information if I _did_ tell you? It surely wouldn't make a difference to the way you treat me…? _No_, of course not. You're no homophobe. So, what then? So you can put me into a _category_ – a _tidy little box_? Straight men to the right, gays to the left?"

"Of course not," John muttered, all the humour gone out of his voice. "I'm not crass enough to think that your characteristics or life style are affected by your sexuality."

"So why does it _matter_?" Sherlock waved a pipette in the air. "That's what I don't understand. In almost any other individual, sexuality _could_ matter. It might affect how a victim met his or her death, how or why a murderer committed the crime, even how a witness might react. But in _me_, it _doesn't_ matter, because it doesn't define my life." He sighed and bent over his experiment again.

John laughed, suddenly relaxed again. "I love the way you say 'any other individual'. As if you're somehow _above_ our base, primitive desires."

His eyes twinkled at Molly. John had a wonderful knack of including everyone in his conversations with Sherlock. Even though she'd hardly contributed to the conversation, he somehow managed to convey a sense of 'you and me against him' that she found herself appreciating.

_I should have fallen for you_, she thought suddenly, looking at his kind face. She could see how he'd earned the 'Three Continents Watson' tag that Sherlock had mocked him for ever since meeting one of John's old army mates. Presumably, he was good in bed – she blushed a little at the thought – but it was more than that. John was the type of man who would want to make his partner feel _special_, even if she was just a one-night stand. _Important._ An attractive quality to Molly, who yearned to feel important to _someone_.

And he was utterly at ease in his own body. When one considered him in isolation from Sherlock, he was a deeply attractive man with those bright blue eyes and that faded blond hair and tanned face and solid, muscular body. It wasn't his fault that he was overlooked whenever he was in the presence of his taller, more dramatic looking flatmate.

But, yes… It would have been far simpler to have fallen in love with John Watson.

John was still looking at her and seemed to guess the direction of her thoughts, as he blinked a little. For a brief, intense moment, they looked at one another, the possibility hanging between them, almost tantalisingly. Then a complicated expression flitted over John's face and he looked away. At the time, she couldn't discern the exact emotion. Later, much later, she recognised it as compassion.

Sherlock spoke again, and they both jumped slightly. "If it helps you to know for certain, John – and frankly I can't see why – I identify as straight. Insofar as I experience attraction at all, the focus would be on the female form."

Molly gently let out the tense breath that she hadn't been aware she was holding, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't hear her. His head was bent studiously over his work as he continued:

"But, as I say, it's entirely irrelevant, since I have not the remotest intention to act on it. I hope that satisfies your curiosity. I can only assume you were concerned that I might be about to 'jump' you."

His voice was quiet and he didn't look in John's direction. However, Molly fancied she could detect a slight pinking of those pale cheeks. He clenched his fists slightly before continuing the delicate job of squeezing drops from the pipette onto the tobacco samples.

"_Hardly_," John snorted, apparently unaware of his friend's discomfort. "While it's interesting to know, frankly I can't visualise you jumping _anyone_, male or female."

"My point _exactly_! It simply doesn't define me in any way." Sherlock suddenly put the pipette down and gestured towards Molly, startling her. "Look at her! New blouse today – green. She knows that the colour suits her, so she wears it deliberately. But _why_? Whose attention is she trying to attract?"

"_Sherlock_…" John murmured, giving Molly an awkward glance, while she clutched at the collar of her blouse with suddenly unsteady fingers. _He'd noticed that the colour brought out the tints of hazel in her brown eyes_…

"And _you_. How often do you dress to impress a woman? Putting on and taking off about four shirts before you go out on one of your dates. I don't know why you bother. You and Molly – bad as each other. 'Does he really like me?' 'Will she say yes if I ask her out?'" He mimicked them in a high, falsetto before grimacing in disgust. "Utterly _pointless_. Who cares?"

"Well, presumably _we_ do," replied John, throwing Molly a quizzical look. "Like the majority of the rest of the human race. Anyway, it's not necessarily _all_ about sex. Most humans are wired not to want to be alone, that's all."

Sherlock snorted. "But it's _mainly_ about sex. I don't understand the appeal."

He bent over his experiment, but raised his head a moment later at John's silence. "_Well_? Go on, then. Ask the question that is currently hovering on your tongue. You know you want to."

John coughed, a little uncomfortably. "Well, OK then. _Are _you?"

"Asexual?" Sherlock paused, as if giving the question serious consideration, and then grinned. "No. I don't have that clinical diagnosis. I have what you would term 'normal' responses. It's merely a question…" he paused, to adjust his microscope, "…of mind over matter."

"You mean you -." John stuttered a little. Molly felt her cheeks flushing again and turned back towards the terminal, trying to hide her reaction.

"It's a natural physiological response, John. Did you assume I was entirely immune? Just because I don't allow it to define me, that doesn't mean I don't experience the same responses as everyone else. Equally, it doesn't mean I have to – how would you put it? – take matters in hand. Masturbation is a waste of perfectly good energy. Personally, I find that some mindless recitation takes the urge away."

"So what do you…?"

There was a pause, during which Molly didn't dare to look around. "The periodic table usually works. In Russian, if it becomes necessary."

Molly choked a little, trying to turn her response into an innocent cough.

"I cannot _believe_ we are having this conversation." Molly risked a look at the doctor. He was gazing at the ceiling in a bemused manner. As if he sensed her attention, he looked over at her, pulling a wry face – that same 'we're in this together' expression.

Sherlock shrugged, picking up his pipette again. "You started it."

"Did I? _You_ were the one who said – oh, what the hell." John rubbed his chin and then grinned suddenly. "Anyway, what's all this business about Molly and I dressing to impress? Are you trying to tell me that you _don't_? With your swish coat and your silk shirts and skin-tight suits?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, yes, of _course_, but it's for the Work. People respond differently to questions from a smartly dressed man."

"Otherwise you'd dress in jeans and a t-shirt, of _course_." Sherlock couldn't repress his shudder at the idea, and John gave a dry laugh. "That's bollocks for a start. You and your brother, you're both the same, always dressing in your posh designer clothes. You just don't like to admit to having the same sartorial tastes as him."

At the mention of Mycroft, Sherlock shuddered even more and made an obvious attempt to change the topic. "So, what about that woman that you were dressing to impress last night – Carla, was it?"

"Corrine," John corrected, with a heavy sigh.

"Yes, _her_." Disdain dripped from Sherlock's tone. "Are you seeing her again?"

John's sigh was even heavier. "Unlikely. For some reason, she didn't seem to enjoy slipping on a tray of dead worms."

"Well, I _had_ to put them there – the kitchen table was full."

"And having you throwing cold water over her legs didn't help much either."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock seemed to consider. "Well, I wasn't absolutely _sure _which of the trays I'd already added the sulphuric acid to. If it _had_ been that one, she might have splashed some of it onto her legs, and I thought better safe than sorry."

He was focusing very carefully on his tests and seemed quite genuine, but Molly fancied there was just the slightest quirk to his lips and felt a pang of sympathy for John's would-be girlfriend.

"Anyway," Sherlock went on, "I only mention it because it's not your appearance that's the problem – I mean the problem that you seem to have with keeping a girlfriend."

"_Oh_ - you don't say."

Sherlock seemed to miss, or disregard, John's blatant sarcasm. "It's that awful blog you've started. No self-respecting woman would want to be with a man who can hardly string a coherent sentence together. And the hyperbole! Cathy has probably read it, and that's the reason why she won't return your texts or calls today."

"_Corrine_," John corrected, wearily. "And anyway, you're wrong. She'd read the blog, that's how we got talking in the first place. People like blogs – especially women. They feel they can learn something about the writer from them."

"Heaven only knows what your blog tells them about _you_," Sherlock muttered in response.

"Actually, I was thinking of writing something about your cases." John gave Sherlock a wicked grin.

The consulting detective sighed. "I feared as much. After that awful account of the – what did you call it? A Study in Pink? Appalling."

John raised his eyebrows. "You won't be complaining if it brings in more clients. People are interested in that kind of thing. It's more interesting than _your_ blog, anyway – gets more hits."

Sherlock glared at him, but made no reply.

Sensing that this was an ongoing source of tension, Molly piped up, a little timidly. "Everyone seems to have a blog these days."

"Yeah, you should try one, Molly," John suggested. "It's quite good fun."

"Oh, I don't think I could… I mean, what would I write about?" She giggled nervously. "Somehow, I don't think my afternoon of typing up pathologists' reports could compete with your accounts of Sherlock's cases."

"Still," John continued. "It doesn't really matter what you write about. It's just a way of getting things off your chest. And maybe meeting different people – you never know."

"Well, I…" she began, but Sherlock snorted.

"Don't be _ridiculous_, John. Why on _earth _would anyone want to read about Molly?"

"_Sherlock_!" his flatmate hissed angrily at him, but Molly had to admit that Sherlock had a point. Who'd be interested in dull Molly Hooper?

* * *

It took her a while to get around to it – a couple of months, in fact. However, eventually, on a rainy January night, she sat down on the sofa with her laptop and began to search for blog sites.

It was surprisingly easy to set up your own page, she discovered. You just had to pick a tool and follow the clear instructions given. In fact, the design side of it was quite fun and she spent a while working out the colour scheme and inserting pictures.

Toby prowled over and rubbed against her leg before jumping up onto the sofa next to her, his purr loud in her ear.

"Do you like what you see, Tobes?" she murmured to him. He leaned into her side; a large, patrician black cat with a handsome face. Not much like the over-cute little kittens on her website, she had to admit. She took a hand from the keyboard for a moment to stroke through his soft, warm fur, and her toes curled up at the pleasure of it. He wasn't much of a lap cat, but when he did deign to allow her to pet him, she felt marvellously warm inside. _Wanted_. Even if, in this case, it was merely a blatant attempt to get food.

After a moment, he jumped off the sofa and stalked off towards his empty bowl. Probably annoyed that she hadn't taken the hint, she mused.

"I seem destined to be surrounded by tall, dark, handsome but ungrateful men," she muttered. "_There_. That'll do. Now, what on earth do I write…?"

She stared at the screen rather helplessly. It was all very well for John Watson, with his rich source of fascinating stories to pick from. Never a dull moment at 221B Baker Street, as far as she could tell from her avid perusal of his blog.

Sherlock was right. Who'd pay any attention to _her_ blog?

Still, in for a penny… She took a deep breath and began to type: "Hi. My name is Molly Hooper…"

* * *

"I did it, you know."

"Hmm?" John was frowning at something on his phone. He was leaning against the wall outside the morgue while Sherlock did goodness knew what to the poor corpse inside. She'd given up watching his bizarre experiments.

"Set up a blog. Like you said."

"Ah - ," he smiled at her, distractedly. "That's great, Molly."

"Are you OK? You seem a bit…" She waved her hand, but he seemed to understand.

"Yeah… I'm sorry, I'm just having a bit of a difficult month, money-wise. It's that git's fault," he gestured towards the closed door. "I could manage to live pretty well on my pension if I didn't spend half of it on black cab fares. And, of course, he never buys any food. I have to get it all…although, to be fair, he doesn't eat much of it either."

"Oh. I – I'm sorry to hear that," she ventured, cautiously. Truth to tell, she didn't know much about John Watson's life beyond his interactions with Sherlock.

"Mmm…" He sighed, putting his phone away. "I'm going to have to think about a job. Trouble is, how will I manage the hours around the investigations? To say nothing of the rude awakenings at 3AM, when _someone_ gets bored and picks up their violin."

He sounded rather put-upon and she wondered if he had any real idea of how lucky he was. She tried to imagine a scenario involving Sherlock putting on his jacket, chucking his phone into the pocket and barking out: "Molly, I need you – there's a crime to be solved." Somehow, it just didn't ring true.

She found herself leaning against the wall beside him. There was something strangely comforting about the company of John Watson. He made no demands on her, and she felt no desire to try to impress him or even to make conversation. She could relax in a mutual, comfortable silence with him.

After that moment in the laboratory, when he'd so clearly read her thoughts about him, she'd been a little awkward around him, but he'd been his usual easy-going self. She'd found herself relaxing more in his company and beginning to appreciate him. He was so much _easier_ than Sherlock! He didn't try to wrong-foot her all the time or fluster her with fake flattery.

"Would Mike…?" she offered, tentatively, but he grimaced, shaking his head.

"He'd offer me a job in an instant, bless him, but teaching's not my thing. Or research. I don't have the patience." His head turned in that familiar jerky manner of his as he glanced wistfully down the corridor in the direction of the clinical section of the hospital. "Ideally, I'd go back into trauma surgery, but… well, my shoulder's not really up to the job now."

He seemed to shrink into himself a little, and she suddenly felt quite irrationally angry. Angry at the army for not looking after him well enough, angry at the sniper who put a bullet through an army medic's shoulder, angry at the surgeons who couldn't fully repair the damage.

John was still talking. "…if anything, it'd have to be general practice. I've got my MRCGP, so I could work as a locum - ."

The door burst open and Sherlock stood there, looking irritated. "Complete waste of time, he announced, as he strode out. "You can put the body away, Molly. Come on, John, let's go to the Yard. There must be _something_ for me to do…"

"Yes, irritate Greg and insult Sally," John muttered, and gave Molly a strained smile as he followed Sherlock out.

As Molly watched them walk away, she thought about the few pathetic little entries on her little blog and wondered whether anyone would ever post a reply.


	4. Chapter 4

**I had a comment from espee, reviewing as a guest, pointing out that Molly is actually a qualified pathologist, i.e. a doctor. Unfortunately, I can't reply directly to guest reviews, so I'm explaining here. First of all, I'm quite sure you're right! Actually, the information is confusing – sometimes she's described as a pathologist and sometimes as a laboratory assistant. In my story After the Storm, I portrayed her as a pathologist but, for the purposes of this story, she's a lowly laboratory assistant at present – and there's a reason for that, which will become clear in later chapters. So, I hope that explains – and thanks for reviewing, by the way! Thanks also to my other guest reviewers that I can't reply to directly. Please remember that it's easier for me to do so if you log in before reviewing.**

**This chapter contains dialogue from A Scandal in Belgravia, for which I gratefully acknowledge the transcripts written by Ariane Devere.**

* * *

Chapter 4

It was an unexpectedly bright day in early December. The winter sun dazzled Molly as she emerged from Bond Street tube station, with a spring in her step.

She'd just finished a night shift in the morgue, so really should've been heading home to sleep, but she had a mission first. John Watson had invited her to the Christmas party he was holding at Baker Street! In the nearly three years since she'd met Sherlock, she'd seen hardly anything of the detective's private life. She'd been to Baker Street a couple of times when Sherlock had asked her to bring some body parts from the morgue. But he'd never seen her outside of the work context, so to speak.

So she had two missions. One was to buy a present for Sherlock – and for John too, of course, and perhaps it would be polite to get a token gift for their nice, chatty landlady, if she could work out what, having only met her on a couple of occasions – and the other was to find a dress that was completely, utterly _devastating_. Something that was so totally 'un-Molly-like' that she might actually have a chance of making him see her in a different light.

_If you can't make an impact at a party_, she thought to herself, grimly, _where can you_?

It was an opportunity, anyway – and perhaps a fresh start. Time to put the past behind her.

It had taken a while to get back to normal after the devastating events in May. It had come as a terrible shock when sweet 'Jim from IT' had turned out to be a fake. To what degree, she had no real idea, but he had clearly been using her.

She had been mortified when Greg Lestrade had marched into the laboratory and taken her to one side for questioning. He was very nice about it, of course, but she'd had to go down to the Yard to sign a statement about her interactions with a certain James Blake, even if it was a pathetically short statement. As she did so, she'd reflected on the fact that she really hadn't known him all that well before he'd disappeared from her life and his job.

Damn Sherlock! And yet, he'd been right all along. 'Jim' probably _had _been gay and just stringing her along to get access to Sherlock who, presumably, he had a major crush on. When it hadn't worked out, he'd probably decided to leave, without even a goodbye to her. Greg hadn't said what charges, if any, they had brought against him; it might have just been a missing person enquiry, for all she knew.

Her emotions had very quickly turned to embarrassment. What a fool she'd been! He'd seemed so sweet when he'd come round, and Toby had seemed to like him. Still…at least she hadn't had a chance to go any further with him than a chaste peck on the cheek. Truth to tell, he hadn't seemed all that interested in going any further…well, he _wouldn't,_ would he?

In the end, she'd assumed that he was Sherlock's stalker, and perhaps the consulting detective had filed a complaint about his obsessive behaviour. This seemed to be confirmed when John had come in to the laboratory alone, a couple of weeks after Jim's disappearance, and had asked how she was doing. He'd seemed to be very sweetly concerned about her, and had said that if she heard anything from Jim, she should let the police know immediately. He'd then smiled and told her not to worry… which, of course, had had the opposite effect.

One thing she hadn't told John, although she had mentioned it in her statement to Greg, was that James Blake (assuming that was his name) had been to her flat. Greg didn't seem overly concerned, but she had, rather uneasily, wondered whether she should have told John. The doctor seemed more worried than usual, and she couldn't help wondering precisely what 'Jim' had said or done to Sherlock.

For a while, she'd been pretty nervous, carrying a rape alarm and a can of pepper spray in her handbag whenever she went out in the dark and checking every corner of the flat each time she returned home. But, much to her relief, Jim didn't reappear in her life.

Nor, for a while, did Sherlock. John had assured her than he was fine, "just busy, you know what he's like". When he _did_ return, about a month later, it was as if the incident with 'Jim' had never occurred. She'd been feeling terribly guilty for providing the means for an obsessive stalker to bother the consulting detective, but Sherlock didn't seem remotely concerned.

When she stammered out an embarrassed apology, flushed red as a tomato, he'd reacted in an unusual manner. He'd contemplated her silently for about a minute and then, just when she'd decided that she was going to get no response, he'd smiled at her, quite warmly, and told her not to worry. He'd even, much to her amazement, taken her to the hospital café and bought their equivalent of a decent coffee for her. Even if he'd then spent the entire fifteen minutes tapping away on his phone, it was _something_.

After that, everything was back to normal, except that Sherlock often came into the laboratory by himself, since John was still fitting in shifts as a locum around Sherlock's investigations. He occasionally muttered a bit about being bored and, on one occasion, moaned about 'pointless cases' that John made him take on to earn a little money. But, on the whole, his mood seemed better for a few weeks. When John was present, he was even more cheerful. He didn't seem to have been put off by John's views on his cigarette ash experiment. She and John would chat happily over tea while he worked quietly, occasionally humming snippets of Brahms. It was almost peaceful.

But then, in the autumn, his moods had grown a little darker again. They weren't as savage as they once were, but he seemed distracted. When she asked John about it, he grimaced and said something about someone having got the better of Sherlock. The impression she received was that Sherlock's pride had been dented… and yet, it seemed more than that.

When he hummed now, the haunting tune was unfamiliar to her. "One of his own compositions," John said, when he asked her. "He's been at it for weeks and can't seem to finish it. Just plays the same movement over and over. Doesn't seem to get fed up, though. He's just…reflective, I guess. He's probably still thinking of -."

He broke off suddenly and Molly prompted him: "Thinking of what?"

John hesitated. "Oh…just a case that didn't go so well."

She nodded thoughtfully, as if she understood, even though she didn't quite. "Do you mean the… the person who beat him?"

He gave her a searching look and she blushed a little. "You've given this some thought, haven't you? Well, of course - ." He broke off again, looking a little flushed himself. It was the closest either of them had come to acknowledging her feelings for Sherlock. "Well – um – anyway, I shouldn't worry about it. You know Sherlock. Always brooding on something."

"Yes, of course." She forced a smile. "So…er, what will you be up to for Christmas, then?"

He cheered up visibly. "Not really sure yet, but I'm hoping to spend a bit of it with my sister. It depends on how things are with her, really. You know – the booze and all that."

She nodded sympathetically. Having seen how stressed he got over his sister's alcoholism, she was pleased for him, but also concerned. She knew how hard it could be on the relatives of alcoholics – she saw enough of them in the morgue, grieving over someone who'd left it just a little too long to turn their lives around.

"And Sherlock?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "God knows. Does he even celebrate it? He moans enough about how pointless the Christmas decorations are, I know that. Which reminds me…" He felt in his jacket pocket for a card, which he handed to her. "Here you are – excuse the writing, I'm not great at crafting invitations. It's for a Christmas party. Thought it might be fun to do something festive – you know."

She held the card in her hand, quite touched. He'd obviously printed something cheap out on the computer and added in details of the date and time in his indecipherable doctor's scrawl. He looked a little embarrassed – she suspected he wasn't very used to hosting parties.

"It'll just be a few of us - you know. Mrs H., of course, and Greg might pop in, and – oh yes! You'll get a chance to meet Jeanette." He brightened up. "I think you're like her. She's a teacher."

"Oh, yes, how's that going?" she asked. "It must be a month now, isn't it?"

"Um – just over three weeks…but I've got a good feeling about this one."

"_Really_? She hasn't been scared off by Sherlock yet?"

"Oh, well…to tell the truth, I've kept them apart as much as possible." He didn't quite meet Molly's eyes. "It seemed like the safest option."

She smiled. He'd had a few 'girlfriends' during the last year – although, to be fair, he was quite clearly trying to settle down for a long-term relationship. It wasn't his fault that he'd been saddled with a flatmate who seemed determined to ensure that he never had the opportunity.

"Well, thank you for the invitation. I'd love to come." She tried to remember the last time she'd been invited to a party. It'd been a while, so she was genuinely warmed by his thoughtfulness.

He looked genuinely pleased. "_Good_, that's good. Only I wasn't sure whether you would be away for Christmas – family or something."

"No. There's just Mum, and she usually goes to my aunt in Scotland. I would've gone, but – you know how it is." She laughed, nervously. "Most of my colleagues have kids, and who wants to hanging around in a morgue on Christmas Eve? I don't really mind filling in for people."

"OK." He didn't fuss about it, didn't tell her he was sorry or look uncomfortable, like everyone else did. She normally hated telling people she'd be alone for Christmas, but with John, she sensed a kindred spirit. Being rather lonely himself, he understood, and merely nodded as he turned to leave. "Well, anyway, I hope you manage to get away for the party."

"I'll make sure of it. Um – John!"

He stopped and looked back at her. "Yes?"

"What are you getting Sherlock?"

He looked startled. "I hadn't given it much thought. Oh, are you thinking…? You know, I shouldn't bother – or at least don't spend too much money.. You know Sherlock – he probably won't be that interested in presents."

But Molly had a strong sense of what was right and proper when it came to Christmas parties, and she certainly couldn't attend without bringing something. Which was why she was here on Oxford Street and heading for John Lewis on a bright sunny winter morning.

Mrs Hudson turned out to be surprisingly easy. Molly had only met her a couple of times, but she reminded her of her own aunt, and she was able to pick out a perfume that seemed likely to suit the chatty old landlady well. For John, she went safe with a bottle of wine and a pair of cheery Christmas socks that she thought would make him smile.

But what could she get Sherlock?

She tried wandering around the ground floor departments, but she couldn't think of a single item that Sherlock wouldn't simply discard. Abandoning the idea for a while, she went up to ladies' fashion and splashed out on a simple but expensive black dress. The neckline was a little low and the dress clung to whatever curves she had, but it certainly fulfilled the criteria for an outfit that was as little like Molly Hooper as possible. So she purchased it, trying hard not to wince at the strain on her credit card.

She wandered around for another hour, but still couldn't find anything for Sherlock. In despair, she bought an expensive fountain pen, which seemed like the best option, but once she'd got everything home, she realised that it was as bad an idea as any of the others she'd had. As if someone like Sherlock hadn't had enough expensive gadgets in his life! He was far richer than she would ever be, and then there was the fabled Mycroft, who she had never met but who was rumoured to be fabulously wealthy.

The problem was, she mused, that she couldn't possibly compete in material terms. Something that was hopelessly expensive for her would probably be a cheap trifle to someone like Mycroft or Sherlock. What could she possibly give Sherlock that he couldn't get elsewhere?

She sat on her sofa, thinking hard…and then the answer came to her. She smiled.

She found some old-fashioned stiff note paper in her desk, a creamy, expensive sheet that would be perfect for the purpose. Then the new fountain pen – might as well get _some_ use out of it….

She smoothed out the sheet of paper on the desk, thought for a minute and then wrote in big letters across the page:

'I, the undersigned, promise to provide the bearer with the following:

5 body parts, to be chosen by the bearer and delivered to 221B Baker Street

1 corpse, donated to medical science, for the bearer's sole use for a six hour period

And no questions asked'

She signed her name underneath with a flourish. Rolling the paper up, scroll-style, she found a red ribbon to tie it with and then put it in a gift box. Wrapping the box carefully, in bright red paper, she smiled as she reflected that even Sherlock might not be able to deduce the contents until he opened the present.

* * *

Molly stood alone in the kitchen, fighting back tears.

Mrs Hudson had wandered in briefly to give her a well-meaning pat before staggering back to her chair in the lounge, unsteady on her feet. John and Jeanette appeared to be bickering in one corner of the lounge, in quiet, tense voices, trying not to be overheard. Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom, slamming his door in John's face. The present she had wrapped so lovingly lay abandoned and unopened on the table.

What a _bloody awful_ party it had turned out to be! How could he be so _horrible_? And yes, he had apologised when he'd realised his mistake, and the kiss on the cheek had been so gentle and unexpected, but….

It wasn't just the humiliation, although that was bad enough. If there'd been _anyone_ in that room who hadn't known beforehand that she loved Sherlock, well, they certainly knew now. She could still _feel_ the hot prickle of humiliation that had spread across her body under this _stupid_ clinging dress, when he'd stood there making his cruel deductions…and then the look of shock on his face when he'd realised his mistake...

But the worse of it was not the humiliation of being exposed in such a horrible manner. It was that she should have known _better_. By now, she should have known that the party was _always _going to be a disaster. That, no matter what she did, she was _never_ going to impress him. Stupid, _stupid _Molly! Three years she had known him and at no time in those years had he given her the slightest hint that she might mean anything to him other than a conveniently-placed pathology assistant. Why couldn't she stop trying? Why did she persist in making such weak-minded fool of herself?

"Er – you OK there, Molly?"

She turned slightly to see Greg Lestrade coming into the kitchen with a glass in his hand. He looked unutterably weary and there was a hard set to his jaw that she hadn't seen before, as if he was trying to restrain his fury. She remembered suddenly that he'd also been a victim of Sherlock's 'fun'.

She smiled at him, a little timidly. She didn't know Greg all that well. Since interviewing her about 'Jim', he'd occasionally sought her out when he was in the morgue to ask her how she was. She'd gained an impression of a slightly grizzled, tough but kindly detective inspector. In an odd way, he made her feel safe – there was something brotherly in his treatment of her, almost as if he sensed that she lacked strong family support and might need a friend to turn to. Or maybe even _he_ had sensed her feelings for Sherlock before tonight, and just felt sorry for her?

She lifted her chin, trying to look tougher than she felt. "Oh, I'm OK. You know how it is – it's just the way Sherlock is."

"He's a little shit," he muttered before throwing back half a glass of red wine. "Bugger doesn't know when to shut up. Never has done."

Despite herself, she giggled at his no-nonsense manner. "But – um… you'd want to know, wouldn't you? About your wife, I mean…I'm sorry, it's really not my business - ."

He poured another glass, giving her a wry look. "Apparently, it's _everyone's_ business. You want one of these?"

She shook her head, watching as he took another gulp. It was clear that he drank more than he should, but she could hardly blame him tonight. "I dunno. Well, yeah, I suppose so, if she's still sleeping with that bastard. Just wish he could've told me in a more private way."

"Will you…will you go back to her?"

He sighed, suddenly looking very old. "Not sure. This'll be the third time. I mean, I _know_ I'm hardly ever home, but we were going to try again – she _wanted_ to try again… Guess I might as well clear out, get my own place again." He laughed, bitterly and put his empty glass on the table, leaning over it. "Obviously still can't trust her."

She looked at him, slumped over the kitchen table, his greying head bowed, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. Here she was, making a fuss when Sherlock was basically just being his usual self. And at least he'd apologised to her. Whereas poor Lestrade had just had his chance at reconciliation with his wife trampled on without any compunction.

"So…what will you do tonight?"

He shrugged, looking up at her through red-rimmed eyes. "Dunno. Don't wanna go home, that's for sure. Got a few mates, but they've all got kids and a big Christmas thing going on, so they won't want to see _my_ ugly mug. Could kip on Donovan's sofa, but she might have company tonight." He gave a harsh laugh. "And I definitely don't wanna stay here."

He took another gulp, giving her a knowing look. "And I bet you don't want to either."

She nodded. "Look – you can come back to mine. Not like that," she added quickly. "Just…I've got a sofa you can use."

He looked uncomfortable. "You don't have to do that, Molly. It's not your problem."

"No, but…you might as well. Maybe things won't seem so bad in the morning." She smiled, suddenly. "You know what I could _really_ do with? A nice cup of tea, a biscuit and a bit of _really_ silly telly."

He looked at her incredulously for a minute and then laughed. "Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me. I need a break from all this drama. OK – well, if you're _sure_ you don't mind me crashing?"

"Not as long as you don't mind going now." She winced as she flexed her feet. "I'm looking forward to getting out of these uncomfortable shoes. To say nothing of this dress." She smiled, ruefully. "I don't think I'm the glamorous type, really."

He smiled back, his dark eyes crinkling attractively. "You make a pretty sight, though."

She waited for the usual flush to spread across her face at this compliment, but just for once, it didn't come. She wasn't sure why, unless it was simply because she didn't feel the remotest attraction to Greg Lestrade. She could acknowledge him as a good-looking man, but there was no specific fission of attraction. She liked him, though, and didn't like to think of him being forced to go back and face his cheating wife tonight.

"Shall we?" He offered his arm to her, and she smiled and slipped her hand through it.

* * *

Back at the flat, she was occupied with digging out spare sheets, pillows and blankets for her (fortunately) large sofa, while Greg stood around helplessly in the manner of unexpected guests everywhere. Once she'd shown him the kitchen and put the kettle on, she retired thankfully to her bedroom to fling off the hated party clothes, including those huge hoop earrings that had seemed such a good idea at the time. Pulling on slacks and her most comfortable jumper, which was festive red, she went back out into the lounge and switched on the TV, flicking to a panel show which looked silly enough to fit the bill.

"It's a rerun of Never Mind the Buzzcocks," she called out. "Hope that's OK?"

He appeared in the kitchen doorway in rolled-up shirt sleeves; while she'd been changing, he'd removed his jacket. "Don't mind as long as it's not Morse. Can't stand police dramas."

"Yes, I suppose it's a bit too much like the real thing for _you_," she mused.

He grunted, turning back into the kitchen. "More that it's _nothing_ like the real thing, which is bloody annoying. You got sugar?"

"Yes – top shelf."

Within ten minutes they were sitting on the sofa with a pot of tea and a plate of mince pies that Mrs Hudson had pressed upon them. It was…nice. She felt relaxed, almost as if she were here by herself. There was no pressure to sit up straight or mess around with her hair or lipstick. She felt quite happy to slump back and put her slippered feet up on a corner of the coffee table.

Greg seemed equally relaxed, stretching his long legs out and balancing his mug on his stomach as he laughed at the panel show and made comments about the sillier answers. He seemed to know a bit about contemporary music, particularly rock and heavy metal – more than Molly, anyway, who tended to stick with fairly middle-of-the-road pop or light classical if she was in the mood. But he didn't criticise her lack of musical knowledge, which made a pleasant change.

As the show ended, he sighed and gulped down the rest of his tea. "Thanks for this, I really appreciate the – the _normality_ of it, if you know what I mean."

She _did_ know. Sometimes, it was a little tiring to be up there on the knife's edge with Sherlock. For the first time, she felt a little sympathy for John – it was just possible that living with Sherlock was not quite the dream it seemed. "You're welcome." His face had darkened again, as if he had been abruptly reminded of his personal problems, so she added, "For what it's worth, I'm really sorry. You don't deserve to be treated like that."

"You mean, by Sherlock or by my wife?" He raised a wry eyebrow, and she found herself blushing.

"Well, I meant your wife, but I shouldn't have said anything. I mean, I know it's not my place to comment."

He sighed. "Nah, you're right. I've known it for some time. Years, probably. It's just – you keep trying, you know? Yeah, I'm not perfect and neither is she, but I _do_ love her…or I _did_, anyway." He put down his mug and leaned back, not really seeing the TV anymore. "Maybe I don't, now. I dunno." He grimaced. "People get divorced at the drop of a hat these days, but…other people, they – _we_ – persist, no matter what. Don't we?"

He looked at her, with dark eyes that were suddenly extremely knowing. She'd always thought of him as something of a plod, mainly because the only time she ever saw him was while he was being derided by Sherlock for his lack of imagination or wrong-footed by the consulting detective's quick-fire deductions. She was beginning to realise that there was much more to the DI than that. After all, it had taken more than Sherlock's help to get him to the top of Scotland Yard.

She looked down at her lap. "I don't suppose there's much point in denying it. I mean, he more-or-less _deduced_ it in front of everyone, didn't he?"

He hummed his agreement. "Well, I'm not gonna deny that you picked a bloody awkward object for your affections. But you probably know that, anyway."

She looked up at him; he was slumped back on the sofa, gazing into the middle distance. "You've known him for a while, haven't you?"

"Yeah, we go back a few years." He laughed. "I'm not gonna tell you how we met as you probably don't want to know. Gonna tell you this, though. There's only that many people that he shows himself to – I mean the 'real' Sherlock, warts and all. Everyone else, he's constantly putting on one disguise or another. He might be a bastard, but at least he's an honest one with the few people that he gives the slightest damn about. He might've treated you like shit tonight, but at least you know that he's relaxed enough to treat you like shit. For Sherlock, that _means _something."

He looked at her, intently. "I don't want you to get your hopes up or anything, but at least you know you mean _something_ to him. Even if that's just a useful person in a useful place. Better than nothing at all. If he didn't care about you at all, he'd probably be polite."

"That's…" she tried to sort it out in her mind. "That seems so contrary. That he can be so cruel to someone he likes."

"Yeah? Well, that's Sherlock for you." He stretched and yawned, covering his mouth. "Sorry. Anyway, I've given up trying to work him out. He doesn't fit any of the profiles, that's for sure."

"You must be tired, let's get this cleared up," she said, leaning forward to gather up the tea things, just as her phone sounded its shrill ring. "Hang on a minute while I get that…"

He took the tray out as she answered the phone. It was the on-duty pathologist; she was having a busy night and another body had just arrived unexpectedly, so would Molly mind very much coming in? She'd ask someone else, of course, but they all had families and she didn't like to impose…

"OK to impose on _me_, though," she muttered as she put the phone down. She had been tempted to say that _yes_, she _did_ mind as she currently had company. That would've shaken them up at work…

"Greg? I have to go into work. You're welcome to stay here, though."

"Are you sure that's OK?" He appeared in the kitchen door. "Don't you want me to drive you in?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you over the limit? No – don't worry, I can get a taxi. You might as well use my bed – the sheets are clean and it sounds like I'm going to be all night anyway. No - really, that's fine. It'll be more comfortable than the sofa."

* * *

It had been a vicious assault. Molly looked at the woman's bashed-in head with pity. This had seemed personal; the rest of the body looked untouched. It would be traumatic for a relative to make the identification. She noted, a little absently, that the woman had clearly been a real beauty. Her white, perfectly formed body seemed to glisten under the harsh morgue lights. She seemed out of place here, so slack and lifeless, and she felt a little sick at the thought of this lovely young woman being attacked so brutally and with such obvious intent.

"Why was she brought here?" she asked Carol, the on-duty pathologist. The paperwork indicated that the body had been transferred from the morgue at UCH.

"God knows. Special request. She has a provisional ID, we're just waiting for family confirmation. Someone's coming in shortly." The pathologist threw her gloves in the bin, having just finished her preliminary examination of another corpse. "Can you hold the fort here? I need to go and speak to the wife of this other one…"

Molly nodded as her colleague left the morgue. She looked down at the woman one last time before covering her with a sheet.

Carol popped her head back around the corner. "Molly! They're here."

"OK." She turned towards the door, preparing to greet the grief-stricken relatives…and stopped dead.

Sherlock was coming in. He was accompanied by a tall, smartly dressed older man, who was addressing Sherlock as they walked. His voice was smooth and a little arrogant; the voice of a man used to giving commands.

"Had her brought here – your home from home." He acknowledged Molly with a quick, appraising look. She had the strangest feeling that she'd seen him before somewhere…

Sherlock also gave her a sharp look. "You didn't need to come in, Molly." His voice was curt, abrupt.

She attempted a slight smile, a little puzzled by his comment. What was it to do with him? "That's OK. Everyone else was busy with…Christmas." She gestured to the body, a million questions buzzing through her mind: _who was she? How did Sherlock know her? Why had he never mentioned her? Why hadn't John?_ "Er – the face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."

She pulled back the sheet to reveal the woman's face. Sherlock stood quite still, staring at the bloody features, his own face utterly blank.

"That's her, isn't it?" the other man asked. So, she must have been a friend – _or more perhaps?_ – of Sherlock, and not him.

Sherlock gestured, a little jerkily. "Show me the rest of her."

For a moment, she thought her legs had turned to lead, but then she moved slowly, grasping the sheet and pulling it with her as she walked slowly along the side of the table, exposing those glistening flanks. Then she watched as Sherlock's eyes roamed down and up the body once, almost greedily.

He turned away, abruptly, and began to walk out of the morgue. "That's her." The words sounded stark and bitter.

Molly felt a cold sliver of ice go down her spine. His tone and these bitten-off words told her all she needed to know.

The other man turned to watch him leave. "Thank you, Miss Hooper."

She had enough presence of mind to wonder how he knew her surname, as she didn't have her badge on… Did it matter, though? She felt cold, frightened. Who _was_ this woman to Sherlock? What did her death mean to him? He'd never looked so _vulnerable_ before.

"Who is she?" She swallowed a little, trying to moisten her dry mouth. "How did Sherlock recognise her from…not her face?"

The man smiled politely and turned to follow Sherlock without answering her.

Molly stared down at the naked woman. Long-limbed and slender – the kind of body that suggested the same animal grace that she always associated with Sherlock. The hair on the undamaged part of her head was black and glossy, expensively kept. The nails were perfectly manicured, unlike her own, bitten short by nerves. The hands were white and delicate; the feet small and graceful. They would look perfect in high heels; no stumbling and painfully cramped toes for this woman.

She was exactly the type of woman that Molly had visualised as Sherlock's likely partner in the early days of their acquaintance. That was before she realised how unlikely it was that he _had_ one, of either gender. But…there had been that conversation in the lab, where he told John he was straight; that it was the female form that attracted him. She remembered the slight flushing along those perfect cheekbones. At first, she had thought that he was just embarrassed by the conversation, but it had been more than that. _Who _had he been thinking of back then? In her wildest dreams, she had thought – hoped – that it might have been her…

"Don't be so _stupid_, Molly Hooper," she told herself, firmly. "You know it was never you." She needed to focus on poor Sherlock...how must he be feeling right now?

She gave the woman one last searching look and then gently pulled the cover back over her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Being a glutton for punishment, I am currently writing 2 multi-chapter fics in 2 fandoms, which is kind of confusing! Anyway, both fandoms come together here, in a small and very nerdy way. In the Hound of the Baskervilles episode in Series 2, Sherlock comments on Greg being "brown as a nut" (which BTW is also Sherlock Holmes' initial description of Dr Watson in the original stories). Anyway, Mark Gatiss allegedly put that line in because they couldn't disguise Rupert Graves' tan during the shoot in Dartmoor…which was caused by the fact that he'd just been in Guadeloupe filming a guest slot on Death in Paradise (which I'm also writing for)! So…there you go. Nerd alert over!**

**BTW, if you're tempted to check out Death in Paradise, I should warn you – it's really not **_**quite**_** Sherlock. Even its actors admit it's a bit of escapist fun and not to be taken that seriously. Nevertheless, it's quite charming and some of us Brits are fond of it because the BBC very cannily airs it in January, when we all want to escape from the British weather!**

**This chapter contains dialogue from The Reichenbach Fall, for which I gratefully acknowledge the transcripts written by Ariane Devere. I actually find these types of chapters really hard to write, because it feels like I'm just spouting stuff from the script all the time instead of being original (although I do try to put in Molly's extra perspective). Still, it does fit with the overall plot, I guess!**

**And, of course, the usual disclaimers apply –not mine, no money.**

* * *

Chapter 5

Molly intended to be gentle with Sherlock the next time she saw him; after all, the poor man had (presumably) been bereaved. She expected a subdued, perhaps even grief-stricken, Sherlock when he next walked into her laboratory. But, of course, the consulting detective didn't conform to the usual rules.

Admittedly, he appeared to be obsessive about a smartphone that belonged to a woman, but he didn't seem particularly interested in the _woman_ herself – more the _phone_, muttering something about people doing silly things and playing games. And he didn't rise to her tentative suggestion of a girlfriend, which was oddly disappointing. Having resolved to _definitely_ move on and look for love elsewhere, it would have been nice to know for _certain_ that Sherlock's affections were (or had been) definitely occupied elsewhere.

Having _finally_ resolved to move on and forget Sherlock, it was surprising how easy it seemed. In the first place, she saw a little less of Sherlock these days. Judging by John's blog and, increasingly, the tabloid press, he seemed to be a lot busier with cases. Some of them were high-profile, and for a while she'd grown used to seeing newspaper photographs of Sherlock looking grim-faced next to a grimacing John.

And even when he did come in, although she still experienced the usual physical, heart-thumping response to his presence, she was convinced that the effect was rather _less_ these days. She prided herself that she could string together perfectly logical sentences nowadays, even on the rare occasions when those sharp eyes were focused on her.

Greg had separated from his wife and celebrated by splashing out on a Caribbean break. When he returned, he'd met her for a drink, looking as relaxed as she'd ever seen him. He was a good looking man, surprisingly fun to be with, and seemed quite interested in her, but something made her hesitate. Rather like John, he'd become a good friend, and she was worried about spoiling that. And also, he knew Sherlock…and that felt wrong. Not that Sherlock would give a damn if she got into a relationship with someone he knew, but Molly felt that she needed to separate her 'Sherlock life' from her ordinary life.

Against her better judgement, she'd agreed to meet Greg for lunch, but he rang her on the morning to cancel, as he had to dash off to Dartmoor. He sounded stressed, muttering something about "those idiots getting in trouble again". He didn't have to tell her that he was referring to Sherlock and John. No one else seemed to give him quite as much grief.

When he returned, the opportunity seemed to have passed - Greg remained friendly, but didn't seem bothered about taking things any further, much to her secret relief. Sherlock and John had also returned from whatever they'd been getting up to in Devon, but again Sherlock seemed quite busy. Molly found herself missing the old days when he was scratching around for cases and doing his endless experiments in the laboratory whenever he was especially bored. OK, she'd had to take the risk of being insulted, but at least he'd brought a little colour into her day, and there was always the bonus of a chat with John.

Of course, she could always keep up with his activities in the newspapers. The initially respectful stories were growing a little bolder and more salacious, with the paparazzi taking opportunities to snap blurry pictures of the detective and his blogger. She couldn't say what Sherlock made of this, as she hadn't seen him for weeks.

In the meantime, she'd struck up a conversation in the hospital canteen with a rather nice male nurse called Paul. At first, she'd been a little suspicious – after all, 'Jim' had been an apparently friendly easy-going co-worker, and she still had no real idea how much of a nuisance he'd made of himself with Sherlock. Looking back, she'd fallen in with him rather too quickly, quite likely out of desperation. But, gradually, she'd found herself returning Paul's smiles and exchanging a few pleasantries as they queued for their food. Eventually, his obvious interest in her seemed sweet and even natural rather than creepy.

After a few tentative coffee dates, they'd managed to align their shifts and had arranged to meet for lunch at a café a few streets from Bart's. Paul was…nice. There was no other word for it. She didn't find his company all that exciting, and he certainly didn't provoke the same physical reactions as Sherlock, but it was just pleasant to be appreciated. She didn't anticipate much coming of it, but that was OK.

So she was looking forward to her lunch date and it was therefore inevitable that Sherlock chose to re-enter her life just as she was hurrying off for it. There might have been a time when being offered lunch by a certain man might have been more of a thrill than it now was, especially as she was experienced in the way of Sherlock these days. If the hastily produced bag of crisps hadn't been a clue, being frogmarched back to the laboratory was a very strong indicator that 'lunch' actually meant work.

Her weak protests died in her throat when Sherlock announced, rather jauntily: "It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"

She stopped dead and stared at him.

John looked equally shocked. "It's Moriarty?"

"Of _course_ it's Moriarty."

_Jim_? Jim was _Moriarty_? She'd seen the newspapers about the trial, of course, including the photographs of the proclaimed criminal mastermind, but he looked somehow different. She hadn't connected the good-looking but cold-eyed, sharp-suited man that had been pictured outside the Old Bailey even _remotely_ with what she remembered of gawky, ever-cheerful Jim in his fun t-shirts and tight jeans.

She cleared her throat. "Um…Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it."

Sherlock didn't seem remotely interested in the fine definitions. "Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

He aimed a fake smile at her, waved the Quavers temptingly and swept into the laboratory.

She stared after him for a moment, speechless.

Yep. That was the old Sherlock she knew and…loved.

She sighed, reaching for her mobile to ring Paul and make her apologies.

* * *

It appeared that the experiment involved identifying traces found in some oil taken from a foot print, to work out where in the Greater London area the wearer had been present. Sherlock seemed even more distracted than usual, muttering to himself and more than once calling her 'John' instead of Molly as they worked together. It didn't bother her overly, although she did pointedly correct him at one point.

At one point, she distinctly heard him mutter: "I owe you."

She looked at him in surprise, wondering who he was talking to – her or John? He was busy staring at a sample through the microscope and seemed unaware of her scrutiny.

She'd brought her laptop over and standing next to him, typing in his results. Secretly she wondered if he really needed her to do that – surely his mind palace would retain all the facts anyway? But Molly was nothing if not meticulous and she had always kept records of the experiments she had worked on with him, for her own education if nothing else.

She sensed a certain tension radiating from him; more than usual when he was on a live case. He could quite often be snappy and irritated or else crackling with energy as a breakthrough occurred, but today he was neither of those things. If anything, she would have said that he was quite subdued.

"What did you mean by 'I owe you'?" she asked, curiously.

Across the table, John moved away and she was aware of Sherlock stiffening and lifting his head, his intent eyes following the doctor's movement.

She asked again, tentatively but determinedly - it felt important to know, for reasons she couldn't fully comprehend. "You said, 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing. Mental note." His tone was brisk, dismissive.

She looked at him. His face was drawn and even paler than usual, and she was struck by the misery she could see in his eyes as he looked at John. A certain memory came…

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." She cringed – she'd hardly been aware of opening her mouth. What a ridiculous thing to say! "No – sorry -."

He cut across her, his voice firm as his attention returned to the microscope. "Molly, _please _don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

It was the old sardonic Sherlock, but she ignored him. "When he was dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely…except when he thought no one could see." She swallowed. "I saw him once. He looked _sad_."

"_Molly_ -." The word was a threatening growl.

She continued, feeling her confidence grow. "_You_ look sad -," she glanced over at John, "– when you think he can't see you."

She saw that she'd hit a nerve. He stopped his study of the sample and looked across the laboratory. John seemed oblivious, his attention focused on some papers. Then Sherlock turned his head very deliberately and looked at her, his eyes questioning.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to answer her, but she rushed in, anticipating the clipped '_fine_' before it left his lips. "And don't just _say_ you are, because I _know_ what that means…looking sad when you think no one can see you."

His eyes widened in surprise. For perhaps the first time ever, she had caught him unawares. "_You _can see me."

"_I_ don't count."

She said it calmly, having had plenty of time to get used to the idea. When had she _ever_ counted, where Sherlock was concerned? Even during the days before John, she'd been little more than a sounding board, quite probably just a present alternative for the skull. It had hurt for _years_, but now… what did it _matter_? She had her role, and it might not be very glamorous or noticeable or even acknowledged, but with every fibre of her being she _wanted_ to help this horrible, crazy, infuriating, _brilliant_ man.

Was that what _real_ love was? Not quivering with anticipation every time he appeared or dreaming of romance and flowers, but simply, honestly, wanting to make someone happy? Wanting to support them, look after them…wanting to _care_ for them?

Maybe that, quite simply, was it – that she'd moved on from being _in_ love with him to simply _loving_ him.

He was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. He seemed lost for words, but she could see the shifting deductions taking place behind his eyes – they were grey today. Confusion, followed by the familiar quick-fire mental flickering through the evidence…followed by a sudden revelation.

Feeling that she didn't really want to know what was on his mind, she continued, quickly. "What I'm trying to say is that, if there's _anything _I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me -." She broke off, looking away; _that _had come out wrong. "No, I just mean if there's anything you need…" She shook her head, resisting a sudden urge to smile. "It's _fine_."

And it was. It really _was_ fine. She felt at peace with her decision. He still looked confused and she wanted, more than anything, to kiss that perplexed frown off the bridge of his nose…but it was an affectionate impulse, there was nothing sexual in it, not like the fantasies she'd so often had in the past. Just a loving gesture, to make him know that he wasn't alone.

"Wha – what could I need from _you_?"

His tone was more tentative than she had ever known it, and it wasn't an obvious question. She sensed it wasn't really addressed at her at all. It was almost as if he were thinking aloud, trying to work something out. Nevertheless, she attempted to answer it.

"Nothing." It was intended to reassure, but she shrugged, not sure he understood her – and not even sure that _she_ did. It was one thing to make the offer to help, but in reality there was probably nothing she could do to help him. "I dunno. You could probably say 'thank you', actually."

She gave him an expectant look, trying to judge how much that quicksilver mind had deduced of her real feelings. From the way his mouth twitched, she suspected he was not sure how to react.

"Thank…you…?"

There was almost a question in his voice and he frowned, looking away.

Sensing his need to process the conversation without interruption, she backed away. "I'm just going to get some crisps. Do you want anything?"

He opened his mouth, appearing to consider her words with more seriousness than they warranted. Her own lips twitched at the sight of a genuinely confused Sherlock Holmes. "It's OK, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll -," he began, but she cut across him, suddenly finding that she needed her _own_ space, and repeating her last words firmly.

"I _know_ you don't."

As she walked through the door and along the corridor, her eyes stung with unshed tears.

* * *

Molly clicked Exit on the records management programme and then closed down the computer. She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes, and winced as she glanced at her watch. 2AM.

She'd been off duty since 10, but bloody Curtis Norton, a cack-handed 21 year old graduate who treated the corpses flippantly and was even worse with computers, had messed up all the record data that had been added since the last system update. Personally, she'd rather give him the sack, but it wasn't her decision. She'd agreed, very reluctantly, to help him re-enter the data, which had involved sorting out files for the last two days; by the time she'd done that, the annoying git had disappeared. Fuming, she'd sat down and got on with the work. She had a sense of responsibility that kept her to the task, but she had determined that she would speak to Mike the next day.

She pushed herself to her feet. She was in a small side-office off one of the lesser used laboratories. The majority of the staff were long-gone; the only ones left would be the on-duty forensic pathologist and a laboratory assistant, who usually stayed near to the morgue in case of new arrivals.

She moved into the empty laboratory, switched off the light and walked slowly towards the door. She felt tired – bone tired. It was more than just a long day at work and the tedious administration task she had just completed. She felt emotionally drained too.

Damn Sherlock! Just when her life seemed to be going in the right direction, he would come back into it and send her back into a spin. After she'd left the laboratory, she'd realised that she really didn't want to meet Paul – not today and not ever. There was no point, and it was unfair on him anyway. It was wrong to pretend something that you didn't - and could never - feel.

She had meant what she said to Sherlock. She knew now that she loved him, no matter how he treated her or how little her feelings mattered to him. You couldn't make yourself _not_ love someone. It was what it was, there was nothing to be done. And there was really no point crying about it, she told herself firmly. And no point in blaming Sherlock either. He couldn't help her feelings. Yes, of course he flirted with her deliberately to get what he wanted, but this went beyond that. If he _never_ turned his charms on her again, she knew she would still help him if she possibly could.

It was love. That was all.

She sighed and put her hand on the door handle.

"You're wrong, you know."

Her heart stuttered as she gasped in shock, spinning to face the shadowy figure.

It was Sherlock. Of course it was. He stood in the shadows, his face turned away from her.

"You _do_ count," he continued, his voice calm. "You've _always_ counted and I've always trusted you."

He turned his head towards her, and she saw his eyes glittering oddly in the dim light that came through the crack in the door. "But you _were _right. I'm not OK."

She swallowed, forcing a calm tone into her voice. "Tell me what's wrong."

He walked towards her, slowly. As he approached, the shadows fell from his features and the expression on his face frightened her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

She took a deep, shuddery breath, not sure what to say. He spoke the words so calmly, but his eyes were…he looked _devastated_. And yet his expression was firm, determined. Did he mean it? He _couldn't _– could he? He didn't look like the type of man who was currently contemplating killing himself, and the Sherlock _she_ knew would have never feared death by someone else's hand.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, determinedly. "What do you need?"

He was still moving towards her, with his usual cat-like elegance, but without the impetuosity. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am… would you still want to help me?"

He was right in front of her now and she had to tilt her chin higher to meet his intense gaze. She felt her peripheral vision receding, her focus narrowing to his eyes alone. They were blue tonight, she noted absently. Dark blue, and as their eyes locked, she saw his pupils dilating slightly. She felt her heart beating faster. Attraction or something else? She couldn't tell.

Oddly, she felt a strange calm coming over her. She felt, ridiculous as it might seem, that her entire _life_ had simply been leading up to this moment. As if _here_, at this moment, the decision she made would affect whatever happened to her in the future.

Dimly, she heard herself repeating: "What do you need?" It was a phrase she'd said to him _so_ often before, over the years, and had received so many contrasting answers, from the mildly impatient to the downright offensive.

He stepped even closer to her, his mouth forming the one reply that she'd so often wished to hear.

"_You_."

* * *

Molly watched as the trolley was wheeled through into the mortuary, a sheet pulled a little haphazardly over the body. A limp bloody hand had fallen from the sheet and hung over the side; the pale fingers splayed stiffly at an angle that was entirely unnatural in a living body. She could just see the cuff of that dark Belstaff coat he loved so much…

As there was no A&E at Bart's but equally no time to take the fatally injured man anywhere else, he had been wheeled into a small resuscitation room in the large specialist intensive care unit. The door had remained shut for only fifteen minutes through, before the consultant had presumably decided that the man was beyond saving – and in truth, he had quite certainly been dead from the moment he hit the ground.

She followed the shrouded trolley. She already had a file in her hand, ready to provide the facts needed by the pathologist, who had recently transferred from Guy's and St Thomas' and had never met Sherlock. _Yes_, she could identify the man as Mr Sherlock Holmes as she knew him well; _yes_, there were the distinguishing marks mentioned in the file – _here_ and _here_. Yes, the next-of-kin was a Mr Mycroft Holmes, and if the pathologist was happy to leave it to her, she would contact him and arrange the formal identification…

She glanced over her shoulder. Further down the corridor, John was slumped down in a chair, resembling nothing so much as a rag doll, with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes were open but unseeing as he stared at his feet. She had thought he would have insisted on being present at the resuscitation attempt, but he must have guessed at the futility of the attempt. Even from this distance, she could see that the adrenaline produced by a combination of horror and grief had finally left him, and he was close to physical collapse. The consultant bent over him and touched his shoulder, appearing to ask him a question, but he didn't seem to know that she was there.

Her heart ached at the sight. She desperately wanted to go to him - hold him and attempt to console him. Somehow she managed to steel herself to turn away. She took a deep, shaky breath and followed the body of Sherlock Holmes into the mortuary.


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh, I just couldn't resist this scene! **

**Usual disclaimers apply - all belongs to ACD and the mighty Mofftiss. Oh, and I know that they're going with a 2 year absence in the series, but I'm sticking my vision of 3 years.**

* * *

Chapter 6

Molly Hooper stuck her key into the external door of her block of flats, heaving a sigh of relief as she did so. It'd been a hell of a day, and then there was that conversation with Gareth to think about…

She took the stairs slowly. She had a flat on the sixth (and top) floor of a smallish block near Belsize Park Tube. There _was_ a lift, but Molly hated being confined in small places, always had for some reason, no doubt an only half-remembered trauma from early childhood. Besides, she tended to use the stairs as a test of her own fitness levels. Since she'd entered her thirties, she'd noticed that she couldn't skip up them in _quite_ the same manner. Maybe it was time to give the gym another go…always assuming she could spare the time.

The top landing was in darkness – the stupid communal light had gone again and clearly no one had bothered to let the agents know yet. She muttered to herself about the inconvenience, but wasn't as stressed as she might have been a few years' back. She'd stopped peering nervously around every dark corner and no longer carried a mace spray in her handbag. According to Sherlock, Jim Moriarty was gone and never likely to return – he'd been very confident about that.

Sherlock… Where could he be now? It had nearly four months since he'd last broken in. During the first year after his 'death', he'd come and gone so often that she'd facetiously offered to get him a key cut. But the visits had tailed off; there'd been a nine month gap in the second year, and then, after that, he'd only turn up intermittently and usually only to use her facilities for a short period or to get her to check the odd injury that he'd not been able to treat himself.

She'd become something of a dab hand at first aid, thanks to Sherlock's ability to get himself into trouble. She'd even dug pellets out of his leg and injected him with strong antibiotics that he'd procured in some devious manner. She'd never been squeamish when it came to blood and guts. Which made Gareth's suggestion even more interesting… But then, she'd never been good with _people_… She sighed again. Probably best to have a chat with Mike tomorrow before making any decisions.

She walked confidently across the dark landing to her door, feeling a familiar sense of satisfaction as she did so. She'd been renting the flat for several years while saving up for her own place, which was no mean feat for a single person in London. Then, last year, the owner had announced his intention to put it up for sale and Molly had seized the opportunity to get on the property ladder. It was a tiny flat, allegedly two bedroomed, although one was really a box room, but it was _hers_. And one of the benefits of being on the top floor was that she had a good view from her tiny balcony, over the rooftops of north London, of Hampstead Heath.

As she put her key in the door, she could hear her telephone ringing. She fumbled with the catch, pushed the door open and hurried in, leaving it open behind her as she dashed for the phone.

"Hello?" She was panting from the exertion of the stairs and tried to calm her breathing by inhaling slowly through her nose.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper." The voice was quiet, cultured.

"Who is this?" Even as she asked, a memory rose…of this voice and a night-time mortuary with the pale body of a savagely beaten woman gleaming under the harsh lights - _"It is her, isn't it?"_. And again, some months later, of a man who had stood still and looked briefly at the corpse of his brother before giving her a polite "Thank you" and walking out again.

"Don't you think you have become a little careless, Miss Hooper? Walking home alone, entering your flat without first checking whether anyone is watching, and leaving your door open?"

"What is this? Who _are_ you?" She felt a cold shiver going down her spine as she glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing there. The doorway was empty, but she walked over and shut the door, quickly.

"Fortunately for _you_…someone who means you no harm. You need not worry, Miss Hooper – no one has followed you up the stairs." The voice was firm and quite confident. "I have…ensured it."

She frowned. "Is this…Mr Holmes?"

There was the minutest of pauses, almost as if the speaker had been caught out, and then a short, dry laugh. "_Very_ good, Miss Hooper."

"Why have you contacted me? And how did you get my number?" Even as she said it, she realised what a stupid question _that_ was. He was something to do with secret services, wasn't he?

Thankfully, he didn't answer it. "May I make a request of you, Miss Hooper? Please go to your window and look at the street opposite. Do you see a black limousine?"

She peered through the window. Sure enough, a large black car was lingering at the pavement across the street. "I see it."

"Good. May I request that you come down to meet it?"

She felt her lips twitch. This was the voice of a man quite used to having his orders obeyed. "Is that a…command?"

Again, a slight pause. "Shall we just say, Miss Hooper, that it will be to your advantage to indulge me?"

She looked down at the car. Something told her that it would not be going anywhere any time soon, unless she was in it. "Ok. Give me a minute."

"Certainly."

The line went dead, and she stared at it, a little disbelieving. She'd heard rumours…somewhere in the back of her mind, she seemed to remember John Watson once complaining about being 'kidnapped' on a regular basis by Sherlock's older brother. But why _her_?

She wondered, a little uneasily, if he had suddenly found out that she'd helped Sherlock fake his death. Did he think that she would know where his brother was? At least she wouldn't need to lie about _that_ – she had absolutely no idea. Sherlock had always been very careful not to tell her where he had been or where he was going, and she had schooled herself to repress her curiosity.

She realised that she was still frozen, staring at her phone and she shook herself impatiently. This wouldn't do. The man might givethe impression that she had a choice, but she was under no illusions that if she refused, he'd find a less courteous way of making her meet him.

As she locked her door and went back down the stairs, she felt more excited than scared. Was this, in fact, news of Sherlock? For all she knew, Mycroft Holmes had been in on the whole affair. She'd followed Sherlock's instructions about the formal identification of the look-a-like corpse, and had been struck at the time by the emotionless manner in which his older brother had provided the required confirmation. He had merely gazed at 'Sherlock' for a few moments, his face entirely blank, before nodding his head sharply. At the time, she'd been shocked by his apparent lack of grief, but now she wondered whether Mycroft had been in on the secret all along.

On the other hand, she couldn't know for certain, and she would need all her wits to get through this encounter without giving Sherlock away. Her heart sank a little at the prospect. Mycroft was, quite clearly, an extraordinarily intelligent man. From what John had said, he sounded somewhat prescient – or at least the doctor had once complained that "he always looks as if his eyes are drilling through my skull to find out exactly what I'm thinking".

Apart from their two fleeting encounters in the mortuary, Molly had never met this fabled Holmes brother. She could only assume she wasn't considered important enough. From John's occasional comments and the gossip she'd picked up from Mrs Hudson, he sounded like a distant, emotionless man – although frankly she couldn't imagine anyone who was _less_ emotional than Sherlock. All in all, she should really be feeling more apprehensive than she was. In fact, her body buzzed with adrenaline as she hurried across the road to the waiting car. It'd been far too quiet recently...

The rear door opened as she approached the car. She didn't know exactly _what _she had been expecting, but she was still taken aback to discover that Mr Holmes was not in the car. Instead, a smartly dressed, rather attractive woman looked out at her and jerked her head to indicate Molly should get in.

She shuffled onto the seat next to the woman, who gave her a brief smile before turning her attention back to an expensive smartphone.

There was an expectant silence as the car moved away, so smoothly that Molly hardly noticed. She felt obliged to fill it. "Um…I'm Molly Hooper."

Again a brief smile and an interrogative, but hardly informative, "Yes."

Molly felt unkempt next to this beautiful stranger. She noticed that the woman had the same glossy, expensively-kept hair as that woman in the morgue that Sherlock had identified. She was slim and elegant too, and Molly squirmed at the thought of the stain on her jumper, the fraying hem of her trousers, the scuffed toes of her boots and her messily pulled back hair.

The woman didn't respond further or offer her own name to Molly. She glanced out of the window, feeling more than a little nervous. She hadn't just fallen into a trap, had she? Had that _really _been Mycroft Holmes on the phone?

"So…it must be really interesting – working for Mr Holmes, I mean," she ventured, cautiously.

The woman smiled but didn't look up from her phone. She seemed to be typing very intently.

Molly sighed and looked out of her tinted window again. This must be the fabled 'Anthea' that she'd heard Sherlock and John discussing once. John had been trying to taunt Sherlock into giving him the PA's real name by claiming that Sherlock didn't really know it, and Sherlock had scoffed but had not risen to the bait.

She tried to focus on the passing buildings, attempting to work out where they were going. She should've been doing that from the start, she realised – or at least it was the kind of thing that people did in the spy novels when they were kidnapped, wasn't it? Actually, the more she thought about it, the sillier it seemed. What use would such information be? Perhaps she would be able to text her final location to Greg, so he could at least come to collect her dumped corpse?

She had to stifle a snort of slightly hysterical laughter at the notion. The woman next to her made no indication that she'd heard anything. And, in the end, the half-imagined techniques of counting time on her watch and keeping track of left and right turns were entirely unnecessary since, when the car _did _stop, it was in a recognisable location - a side road off the Islington High Street, close to Angel tube station.

She looked enquiringly at 'Anthea', but the woman merely nodded her head towards the door again. Tentatively, Molly opened it and stepped out.

Instantly, a man stood by her side, directing her steps with a light but meaningful touch to her elbow. She found herself stepping through the door of what looked to be a fairly exclusive restaurant.

A restaurant it certainly was, but the very few, beautifully laid, tables were empty in the dimly-lit interior. Only one table appeared to be in use, at the far corner of the room. A tall man stood by it.

The man at her side gestured towards the distant figure and then disappeared silently, just as quickly as he had appeared.

Mycroft Holmes (and she could recall him with perfect clarity) was indeed tall, even taller than Sherlock, although far less skinny in appearance. He was by no means overweight though, despite her half-remembered memories of Sherlock's derogatory remarks concerning his weight and diet status. She supposed that, to Sherlock, everyone looked fat.

He wore an expensive dark grey suit that made him look older than he was. Sherlock had made it sound as if his older brother might just as easily have been his own father, and on the two occasions that she'd met Mycroft Holmes, she hadn't had time to form more than the haziest of impressions of his age. So it was a shock to realise, as she approached him, that he was probably no more than seven or eight years older than his brother; no older than mid-forties, and with a healthy head of reddish-brown hair that showed no signs of grey.

He was pale but lacked Sherlock's ethereal, other-worldly colouring, all ever-shifting eye colours and moods. Instead, his eyes were solid steel-grey and she suspected that his basic nature was just as steady, and perhaps as cold and unyielding. His nose was long, which gave him an aristocratic look, and his lips were thin and compressed, possibly by the careful repressed of emotion over a long period of time. For all that, his expression, as he looked at her, was not unkind. He lacked Sherlock's obvious attractions, but he was still a good-looking man, in a quiet way.

She suddenly realised that she had been staring at him quite unabashedly, and blushed. "Sorry. I'm not normally so rude."

The straight lips twitched a little. "Not at all, Miss Hooper. Now that we have our full measure of one another…", he gestured towards the table, "…perhaps you would care to join me for supper?"

She followed his hand and her eyes widened. There was a carafe of wine sitting on the table, and she didn't have to know much about vintages to guess at the quality or the cost. It was _that_ kind of restaurant, she supposed – the kind where, if you needed to know the cost in advance, you wouldn't be able to afford it. Mycroft looked like the kind of man who never needed to worry about the bill.

She felt seriously out of her depth…but then she had a wealth of experience of _that_. She lifted her chin, summoned up every ounce of the courage that she had once needed to face Sherlock, and smiled at him. "Well, I've only got pasta in the flat so…why not? Thank you."

That earned her a keen glance, with just a suggestion of approval. She was struck by how old-fashioned he seemed in his mannerisms, as he politely led her to her chair. And there was his use of the word 'supper'. She didn't think she'd heard dinner described as that outside of an Enid Blyton book. Oddly, the phrase made her believe for the first time that this man really _could_ have been brought up with Sherlock, who occasionally used old-fashioned words himself. She'd once heard him arguing with Mycroft over the phone about something he had done that had, apparently, "upset _Mummy_".

Being occupied with trying to hide her smirk at the thought of 'Mummy', she forget to be nervous as she sat down, although the nerves returned as a silent waiter appeared from nowhere and handed her a menu. It was in French, and languages had never been Molly's strong point.

Mycroft appeared not to notice her discomfort – or else he was too polite to comment. "I _would_ recommend the veal," he said, in a comfortable manner, "but it might not be to your taste. Perhaps a touch rich. May I recommend the Soupe aux Chataignes to start, followed by the Rissotto De Potiron?"

She was none the wiser, but nodded, rather weakly. If this Holmes was anything like his brother, he would probably be able to deduce her tastes from her appearance, anyway. He gave the orders in perfect French and the waiter took the menus and departed.

Molly glanced around the silent, empty restaurant, trying to gather her thoughts. She was aware that Mycroft was watching her intently, and when she turned back to him, he didn't try to hide the fact. In fact, he continued to observe her silently, his hands folded together under his chin.

She tried to laugh, but her mouth felt dry and she choked over it. "And now _you're_ staring at _me_!" she managed to splutter.

He smiled and poured some water into one of her glasses (she appeared to have four on the table, all different sizes). "I do apologise. I was somewhat curious, I must admit."

Sipping gratefully, she waited for him to expand on this, but instead, he turned his own attention to the wine, pouring some out for her first and then for himself. "It's from a good year. I usually send over my own wines when I dine here. I'm rather fussy, I'm afraid." He lifted his glass towards her in an ironic fashion before sipping at it delicately.

She lifted her own and took a fairly big gulp. Molly wasn't a massive fan of red wine, but she felt she needed some now.

"Why am I here, Mr Holmes? I mean – I'm sorry, that sounded a bit rude, but…" She flushed a little. "It's not as if you've paid any attention to me in the past."

He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed not. And perhaps that was my mistake, Miss Hooper. It would seem that, where my brother is concerned, I have a tendency to underestimate the importance of certain individuals. Mr Moriarty was _certainly_ a factor that I did not account for."

There was an air of regret in his voice, and he looked away for a minute. It was a rather nice voice, cultured and smooth, but also gentle – far gentler than his brother's. She wondered how often, and in what circumstances, he would raise his voice. Sherlock's baritone was like a melody, as expressive and as musical as the man himself with its constant 'rise and fall' – not unlike the tide of a stormy sea. But Mycroft… Mycroft's voice was a quiet summer's day. It seemed to trickle over her like a stream over rocks, utterly assured, and the very assurance reassured her.

At this thought, she grimaced at the wine; had she drank too much already? When had she started conjuring up such bizarre and ridiculous analogies?

As she put down her glass, determined not to drink too much, her starter arrived. She had guessed it would be soup, but was pleasantly surprised at the delicate flavour.

Mycroft occupied himself with a pate, spreading it liberally over a slice of crusty bread. He leaned back in his chair and ate the bread with every sign of enjoyment. Her spoon stilled as she watched him, somewhat surprised.

He caught her attention and waved a hand, casually. "Please don't mind me, Miss Hooper. I attend far too many state banquets, you know, and ambassadorial dinners… at which the purpose is _not _to eat, or so it would appear. One has to follow so many rules… When I dine in my favourite restaurant, I like to _eat_. Despite what my brother may think, I do not spend my day eating cream cakes. And I do like food…perhaps a little too much at times." He glanced down at his stomach.

"Is that why you clear the restaurant?" she asked, meaningfully. In the back of her mind, she noted the present tense being used in relation to Sherlock.

He looked up at her and then around the silent room. "Ah… you mean this?" He smiled. "Ironically, Miss Hooper, you are benefitting from a happy set of circumstances. I did _not_ 'clear' the restaurant for our meal, as it happens. In fact, it had been closed for a private dinner being hosted by the Foreign Office for a group of Chinese delegates – at _their _request. It seems that they wished to escape the Embassy for an evening to experience some North London colour…but their security guards were a little zealous as to the degree of 'colour' to be experienced. However, and rather unfortunately, while taking a tour of the Palace Guard this afternoon, one of the gentlemen fell and sprained his ankle. Hence an empty restaurant." He smiled at her. "I was _more_ than happy to take the opportunity for a private chat in more salubrious circumstances than usual. I'm sure that Dr Watson will tell you that he was not always so lucky."

"A private chat - with _me_?"

"With - as you say - _you_. How is the soup?"

"It's lovely." She turned her attention back to it, reflecting on the manner in which he kept deflecting the conversation. Clearly he would get to what he really wanted to say in his own time.

She felt oddly at ease and dug into her soup with more enthusiasm, as he began to engage her in casual talk. He was a good conversationalist – part of his training, she assumed – being able to turn the discussion to those topics that most interested her, while appearing to share her interest. She learned that he, like her, was not particularly knowledgeable about or interested in music, unlike his younger brother. He enjoyed art, which had been one of her favourite subjects at school, and they spent some time comparing artists and talking about a couple of exhibitions that they had both seen recently. He was very well-read, as she could have guessed, with a wide knowledge of classical literature, but also confessed to a liking for Tom Clancy novels, much to her delight. Moving onto to films, they discovered a shared guilty pleasure for old horror B movies, and he was able to recommend one or two that she hadn't seen yet.

At the time, she felt flattered by his interest, if a little surprised that they had so much in common. Later, in retrospect, she realised that it had probably all been an act, designed to put her at her ease, along with his informal table manners. A man like Mycroft would probably be clever enough to immerse himself in the interests of others to such a degree that he could pass himself off as a fellow aficionado. As hard as she tried, she couldn't imagine him _really_ sitting down to a Tom Clancy novel at the end of a hard day of charming diplomats, or tuning in to a Vincent Price late-night movie with a bowl of popcorn. The image just seemed _wrong_. But at the time, she was charmed enough to believe him.

Their discussions took them through the starters and then the main course, which she discovered was a melt-in-the-mouth butternut squash risotto. After she politely refused the dessert menu, feeling too full to give it justice, he ordered coffee and a selection of cheeses and then fell silent until their drinks and the cheese platter arrived.

Her nerves returned as she sensed the conversation was about to turn to the topic that was presumably of most interest to him. For a moment, he didn't seem to notice her, being busy cutting a slice of blue cheese, which he then placed very precisely in the middle of his plate. He retained the knife, using it to cut the slice into tiny cubes.

"You assisted my brother in the act of faking his death."

It was not a question, more of a flat statement. His voice sounded flat too, as he stared fixedly at his plate. He continued methodically chopping at the cheese, the dull thud echoing the loud beating of her heart in her ears.

"So…you _knew_? All this time?"

He looked up at her, his face emotionless. The earlier animation had left it, and she wondered, uneasily, whether this was the _real_ Mycroft.

"I, of course, knew from the start that Sherlock had not killed himself. He would not have been so…_stupid_. Also, we had made contingencies for such an occurrence, although it would seem that events rather got away from him. Nevertheless, my brother has his own contacts. He did not use _mine_, not to stage the death, at least." Was it her imagination, or was there just a hint of bitterness in that smooth tone?

"Then, you know how…?"

"Of course. I can deduce." His eyes were very definitely steel-grey as he observed her. "To achieve such an effect, he would have needed an inside person. Someone who was intensely loyal to him, yes, but also someone who would be too easily discounted. _I _discounted you, Miss Hooper. Just like James Moriarty, I underestimated you."

She tried to make sense of this. "So, Sherlock didn't - ."

"No, Sherlock did not tell me of your involvement. Even now, he makes no mention of you – oh, yes, I have seen him, on several occasions over the last three years. He seems to obtain a certain pleasure from dropping in on me at the most inopportune moments." His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "It _was_ a little hard to explain to the Indian Prime Minister why there was a tramp asleep in my private office… And, of course, he has been to visit you. But no, he did not mention your role. I suspect he was unsure exactly how far Moriarty's web had spread. And he certainly doesn't trust my people, much less _me_." His mouth turned downward and he looked back at his plate of cheese. "It _is_ rather a shame, as he _did_ trust me once…but that is in the past."

By now, the cheese was a pile of crumbs. He contemplated it for a moment before placing the cheese knife on the platter with exaggerated care. Pushing his plate away untouched, he leaned back in his chair and assumed his earlier pose, fingers steepled under his chin as he looked at her gravely.

"No, I was not told of your role. I merely…surmised. Tell me, Miss Hooper, has my brother ever thanked you for saving his life?"

"Well…" She felt uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny and took a gulp of coffee to steady her nerves. "He knows he doesn't need to."

"Of _course _he hasn't." He sighed, gently. "I _would_ offer my own gratitude, and that of my parents – who _also_ know of his survival, by the way – but I suspect it would mean very little to you."

His attention shifted abruptly; his eyes moving to a corner of the empty restaurant so suddenly that she followed his gaze, expecting to see something or someone there. They were alone, though, and she suspected that he was so lost in thought that he didn't really know what he was looking at.

As the silence deepened, she shifted awkwardly, wondering whether to break it. She didn't imagine that he'd arranged this elaborate dinner merely to inform her that he knew she was an accomplice. No, there was more to come.

Just as she was beginning to get really uncomfortable, he sighed and ran his hand over his forehead, suddenly looking rather old. She had more of a sense of what Sherlock had meant when he mentioned his brother – there _was_ something timeless about Mycroft. He might have belonged to an earlier age, with his old-fashioned suits and manner of speech, more suited to a man some twenty years his senior.

"He needs to return to London."

She jumped as the silence was broken. "I don't know where he is."

He looked at her very deliberately. "There have been…developments. It is time for Sherlock to stop playing his little _games_." The disdain in his voice was clear.

"Games, you call them?" She forgot her apprehension in her indignation. "Have you _any idea_ what he's going through? The injuries -."

"I have a _fair _idea." His voice was icy – how had she ever felt reassured by it? "Yes, I _do_ call them games. Sherlock could have ended this a very long time ago, if he'd been prepared to work with my officers."

"Perhaps he wants to finish this himself?" she suggested. "After all, Moriarty's attack was personal, and…"

The look on his face told her what he thought of this theory. "It's far more likely that he still doesn't trust me." He sighed again and shook his head, like a disapproving father. "Sherlock has always derived a certain pleasure from thwarting my plans."

"If you're suggesting that he _enjoys_ playing dead – that he can possibly be _happy_ knowing that John still thinks he is dead..."

"Are you certain that he does _not_?" His eyes were grave as he looked at her. "Consider the facts, Miss Hooper. You knew my brother before he met John. He was used to working alone, was he not?"

"Well, yes, but -."

"And you are about to say that he was much happier when John came along. Yes, you are right, he _was_… And that is my point. _Was_ happier. But Sherlock has been working alone for the last three years. Tell me, when was the last time you heard him mention John Watson?"

She opened her mouth to object, but then closed it again as she gave this some thought. In the early months after his 'fall', whenever Sherlock visited her, sooner or later the conversation would turn to John. He wouldn't ask after John _directly_ – he was never that obvious about it. It was more a case of casual enquiries – had she been to Baker Street recently, had she seen anything of Mrs Hudson, had there been any interesting cases at the morgue recently? Always very carefully skirting around the topic. She'd tried to answer to the best of her ability, but the truth was that she'd kept her distance from John, initially out of guilt and more recently because they had simply grown apart. She'd heard, during a chance meeting with Mrs Hudson, that John had left Baker Street not long after Sherlock's funeral, and got the impression that the old lady was rather hurt that he hadn't kept in touch with her, but she didn't like to pass this on to Sherlock.

While Sherlock was away on his long absence during the second year, she had heard from Greg that John had, in fact, moved in with his girlfriend, who seemed a little more serious than the previous ones. She had meant to tell Sherlock, but the opportunity never seemed to arise. When she finally saw him again, he'd shown less interest in any of his old friends. His visits had been sporadic, they had been shorter, sometimes just a few hours, and he had seemed quieter and a little more self-absorbed.

Looking up at Mycroft, she saw his eyes soften in understanding. "_Exactly_. My brother has never been _good _at working alone – by which, I mean that he is of course eminently successful. Ruthlessly efficient. Deadly, even, as no doubt many of Moriarty's associates have discovered. However, working alone does not make him a _good_ man… Dr Watson had a power for good over him," he added, reflectively. "I could see that from moment they met. He had an ability to make Sherlock think about the consequences; to second-guess himself, if you like. John probably never knew that he had much influence over Sherlock, but it _was _there. It was not obvious to anyone who did not know where to look."

He paused. "It was for that reason – and for that reason _alone_ – that I allowed Dr Watson to continue in his association with my brother. If I had had any suspicion _at all_ that his influence was less than benign, he would have been removed immediately."

Although his voice was as quiet and measured as before, she suddenly had no doubt at all that Mycroft would have carried out his threat. She shuddered before she could stop herself, and he caught the movement and raised his eyebrow.

"Not as you may think. There are other ways to achieve an objective, and I am not an unnecessarily violent man, no matter what you may think. It was merely that Dr Watson would have found himself with an offer of employment that he couldn't easily refuse. A war medicine consultancy post in the United States with an extremely generous remuneration package might have suited."

"He wouldn't have accepted it. He would _never_ have left Sherlock."

She didn't know why she felt so fiercely protective of John all of a sudden… _or _where her confidence in his dogged loyalty to Sherlock came from. However, to her surprise, Mycroft nodded, in an approving manner.

"I strongly suspect you are right… Nevertheless, whether Sherlock likes it or not, his undercover days are _over_. They _have_ to be…for the sake of this country." The last words were muttered, and she wondered if he had intended her to hear them.

She gave him a steady look. "I _still_ don't know where he is."

His gaze was equally calm. "I believe you, Miss Hooper." He stood suddenly, to indicate that dinner was over, and she drained her cup of excellent coffee and rose. "Fortunately, I do know where he is…." He sighed, sounding exhausted. "Retrieving him will involve a certain degree of infiltration, which is always so…tedious. However, needs must."

"So…if you _knew_ where he was, all along…then, why all _this_?" She indicated the table, with its empty plates and glasses. "Why did you bring me here?"

He gave her a brisk smile. "Two reasons. Firstly, I wanted to prepare you for the fact that Sherlock _will _be back soon. Not _just_ back, but 'risen from the dead'. When _exactly _I cannot say with any certainty, but it will be within the next three months. I thought it only right that you should know, as there will be questions asked."

"The autopsy…" She hadn't really thought of that. Her name was down as a key witness; she'd signed a form declaring the body to be that of Sherlock Holmes.

He waved a hand. "Don't worry, that's all in hand. I will make sure that your career doesn't suffer by association."

"Thank you…. What was the second reason?" she added, curiously.

His face was oddly blank as he looked at her. "I must admit to a desire to meet the individual that will become extremely important to my younger brother."

She laughed awkwardly, her face heating. "That's absurd! The whole point of Sherlock using me to help him was that Jim _wouldn't _realise! I didn't 'count' – I _never_ counted – not to _Sherlock_."

He walked her to the door in a courteous manner. The ever-silent man reappeared to escort her back to the waiting car.

Just as she turned back in the open doorway to thank him for dinner, he added. "You misunderstood me, Miss Hooper. I did not say that you _did_ count. I said that you _will _count."

She frowned and opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, but he simply nodded to her and turned away, the door closing behind him.


End file.
